


A Realm in Rebellion

by sirloPPolaris



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 20:28:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 30
Words: 119,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirloPPolaris/pseuds/sirloPPolaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The false spring floods Westeros in golden light but a Mad King has begun to lose his grip on his power, his Iron Throne. A dragon Prince, wise and fair, loves one that is not his to love and with this begins a rebellion that would see his fiery dynasty burn to ashes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A Realm in Rebellion is based on A Song of Ice and Fire by George R R Martin. Using as much information as can be gathered about the events of Robert's Rebellion and the world of Westeros, it is written as canon as can be.

Prologue

The clashing of steel on steel and men's angry shouts floated up from the battle below but the window showed only the dark night sky and the stars beyond. A single candle to alleviate the dark chamber, the hot wax dripping down onto the surface as the flames sent shadows dancing across the walls. A soft moan came from the bed and a girl-or maybe a woman lay sprawled out across bloodied bed sheets, her dress a mass of ivory and crimson. Her blood had stained her hands and smears had imprinted across her face from where she had writhed in agony, clutching at herself for comfort. Her beautiful face was masked by a fever and a bead of sweat meandered its way down her forehead. At her bosom a tiny head smattered with black hair and blood, its chest slowly rising and falling as the baby dreamt. The cry of a man below the tower made her moan again. She had never known such pain; she felt she was being torn apart from the very heart of her. The swords had stopped clanging underneath and soon hurried footsteps echoed up the staircase beyond her door followed by ragged breath. The door swung open with a bang and in the frame stood a tall man with dark hair and a long sword spattered with dark, ominous liquid. A deep gash had opened his armour at the arm and red trickled beneath. The man ran towards her throwing his weapon aside as her eyes fluttered open.  
"You came." She smiled weakly. The man knelt beside her and grasped her hand as she held his unshaven face in hers. He looked down upon her with a look of sorrow and her smile faltered as he took in the blood soaked bed and the child that lay on her. His face turned to anger and he grabbed the bed sheet.  
"What is this? What did he do to you?"  
"Brother, he did nothing, only loved me."She said her breath ragged. "I love him, I'm sorry I loved him." She stroked his face and her eyes rolled into her head as she took another shallow breath.  
"He's gone, Aerys too. The Queen and Prince Viserys have fled across the sea. It is over." he said as he stroked her hand.  
"His...his son." Her brother looked upon the last Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne and the realm. There seemed more Stark in him than the house of the three-headed dragon.  
"They will kill him! Robert will not let him live." She wept silently at these words and her tears fell into her thick dark hair that lay around her head like a mane.  
"We must hide him, you must" The boy stirred is his sleep, clutching at his mother in her ruined cloth. "Ned, please. Sweet Ned." Her brother shook his head in disbelief, his shaggy hair falling about his unshaven, weary face. "Call him your bastard, keep him safe, please."  
"Lyanna I can't. "She held his face in her hand, and once again stroked his cheek weakly.  
"Ned, promise me" Her breath shallow, her fever sweltered and a gust of wind from the night extinguished the candle.  
"I promise."  
"Promise me." Her eyes faltered and the light left her. Her eyes stared out into nothing, glassy and empty. The man beside her let out a low sob and rested his head upon her. He wept her name into the night. _Lyanna_.


	2. Brandon

A raven cawed loudly from the window sill as it hopped from one leg to another a roll of parchment strapped to the left. Brandon ignored it and rolled over sleepily, putting his pillow over his head. _Fucking birds. I hate them. Curse them_. It cawed again filling the room with the shrill noise. A knock on the door added to the growing din.  
"Ser, I think you have a raven." His squire said tentatively through the door.  
"I was aware of the raven's presence Ethan." He called back annoyed from his bed. He slowly opened his eyes toward the light and the raven cawed once more as he threw aside the bedcovers and moved towards the open window. He pushed his dark curls from his eyes lazily and the raven pecked at his hand as he untied the note. He cursed, sucking on his now bleeding finger. He flapped the bird away impatiently and it took flight out the window, circling around the towers of Winterfell before disappearing into the distance. _Brandon, I have reached the Neck five days after I left Winterfell. I will return with haste with Lord Robert. Ned._ Brandon read it quickly. _Five days?_ He counted quickly in his head.  
"Shit." He dressed hurriedly, pulling on dark breeches and a grey cotton shirt. Throwing his cape over his shoulders and quickly fastening it attempting to put on his boots at the same time still clasping the note in his hand. He ran from the room and his squire Ethan Glover gasped as the door swung on its hinges slamming on the stone wall.  
"Ser Brandon! Your breakfast!" He ignored the shouts after him and rushed towards his father's chamber skidding round corners his boots sliding across the stone floors. He banged a fist on his father's chamber breathing heavily from the sprint. He had expected one if his kinsmen to be standing guard but clearly the hour was too early even for them.  
"Who is it?" He heard his father call groggily.  
"Brandon, father."  
"Come in." He opened the door to the poorly lit chamber. His father Lord Rickard, Warden of the North sat up in bed rubbing his eyes. "What is the matter Brandon my boy?"  
"A letter from Ned." He shoved it into his father's hands and he walked across the room to open the window. His father squinted at the letter and Brandon watched as he counted in his head as he had. His eyes widened.  
"Seven hells!" He stood quickly in baggy sleep clothes; he did not look as lordly as he did in his finery. "That would mean they are to arrive today." He called for Maester Walys. "You were right to wake me Brandon. Go and wake Ben and Lyanna. I'll see that everything is prepared." Brandon nodded and turned on his heel and ran back in the direction of his own room. When he came skidding in front of Benjen's door he did not even knock before he entered, his little brother was used to it by now. Brandon slammed the door open and Benjen sat up suddenly untangling himself from blankets and his long dark hair looking around for the disturbance.  
"Brandon what are you doing?" He moaned.  
"Ned will get here _today_ with Lord Robert."  
"Today?" He moaned again and lay back down heavily muttering. Brandon grinned and walked out the door as Ben began to get up. _Bloody ravens, they were meant to be sharp-minded but not even a days notice was barely enough to prepare for the Lord of Storm's End._ His cloak dragged along the floor as he walked further along the corridor and turned more corners to reach his sister. He knocked this time, more softly than he had for his father. Lyanna's handmaid opened the door and peaked through at Brandon suspiciously.  
"Ser Brandon? This is an early hour to be calling on your sister."  
"I know I-"  
"Is that Bran?" Lyanna called from inside the room. "Come in." The maid looked back over her shoulder with her mouth set in a hard line as if she did not approve. Though Brandon didn't blame her, his sister rarely paid the woman any attention and disregarded her rules of etiquette doing as she pleased instead. His sister sat up in bed her long dark curls already brushed and holding a cup of steaming liquid. She smiled brightly as he walked in, as she always did when she saw him. Lyanna was beautiful and warm, a sun in the North. Rebellious as she was, she had great wit and humour and all at Winterfell had fallen under her spell since the moment she could speak. Now she had grown into a woman it was her beauty that left most enchanted by her and even he had to admit in the dappled morning light, her face fresh from sleep she was pretty.  
"Ned sent a raven saying that he had reached the Neck in five days and would ride back with haste." She looked quizzical for a second, tilting her head to the side counting as he and their father had done. Her eyes widened comically.  
"They're coming today?" Brandon nodded.  
"Better get ready. Father is likely to be running about like a madman." She rolled her eyes as she moved the blanket aside.  
"When isn't he?" Brandon chuckled and left to go back to his own chamber and find something more appropriate to wear in the presence of a Lord. He looked out of his window at the now bustling courtyard; his father had probably woken the whole castle to ready themselves for their guests. He changed into a doublet bearing the House Stark sigil of the direwolf and a heavy cloak of dark grey velvet. He sat down at the table where his squire had lain out the morning meal for him and began to eat as Ben strode in wearing similar clothing to Brandon and sat in the chair beside him and Brandon called for Ethan to bring more food.  
"Lord Robert's here for Lyanna isn't he?" Ben asked thickly through a mouthful of bread. Brandon shrugged.  
"Well we don't know that." _We do know that_ , he thought. Ned had near as much told him that Robert loved Lyanna and was hell bent on marrying her. Though he didn't want to tell Ben that yet, he knew he didn't like the thought of sending Lyanna off to Storm's End so far from the North. They ate in silence. Lyanna appeared in the doorway in an emerald green dress with a deep neck and pulled up a chair next to Ben. They ate together but still in silence. Lyanna picked at her food, Ned had warned her too of Robert's intentions and she looked uneasy chewing absent minded as she stared out the window lost in thought. He thought it better not to mention it at all and hoped Ben would do the same. They were very close and when Brandon, then Ned had been fostered Lyanna had cried for days and days and sent letters constantly telling them how lonely she was, how empty Winterfell was without them. A great noise started up in the courtyard below and they all looked toward it. The voices below raised but the words were still discernible but the opening of the gates was unmistakeable as was the clattering of hooves. Ben walked towards the window and leaned on tiptoes over the edge,  
"It's Ned, and he's with Lord Robert." Lyanna glanced at Brandon quickly and he reached across and squeezed her hand for a moment. _I don't think I've ever seen her scared_. Only yesterday that had practiced in the woods as they had done for years. An hour passed and none of them said a word as Ethan cleared the table. Each of them was lost in thought, staring at nothing. Brandon thought of all the things he would miss about her and felt a sudden burning hatred for Robert Baratheon. Why couldn't he just choose some other girl? It wasn't as though he didn't have his pick of hundreds of women. There was a soft knocking on the door and they all looked at each other nervously. Ned walked in his long face set in the happiest expression he had ever worn.  
"Brandon." He embraced his brother warmly. He smelled of sweat and horses from the long ride. He let go of Brandon and walked to where Ben stood near the window and embraced him too.  
"Ned you smell like shit." Ned laughed.  
"Appreciate the compliment brother." He walked back to where Lyanna now stood beside Brandon and hugged her in his strong arms. He looked at her lovely face set in such a mournful expression confused.  
"Why so sad Lyanna?" She smiled instantly though it did not reach her eyes.  
"Not sad Ned only tired. Your raven had us all up at the crack of dawn." He smiled again and went to the door.  
"Come on, father wants us in the hall." Ned strode off down the corridor and Ben sighed behind them and followed. Lyanna hadn't moved and Brandon felt that he should wait for her. She'd probably make a run for it if he left her here. He took her hand in his and squeezed it again. She looked at him her eyes distant.  
"I... I don't want to go."  
"We have no choice."

The Great Hall enclosed within grey stone and covered with banners, with wide doors made of oak and iron stood ajar as Brandon walked through into the room with Lyanna and Benjen at his sides. Their father sat in the Throne of Winterfell and in the centre of the highest table. Beside him sat Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm's End, a great muscular warrior with piercing sapphires for eyes and hair as dark as the night. He wore the colour of his house and the stag stood out upon it. His eyes lit up as Lyanna walked into the room, drinking her in as though she were a rare wine. To his other side sat Maester Walys, the old man had a pinched face and beady eyes, completely unremarkable besides his heavy gleaming chain about his neck. Ned stood in front of the dais waiting to be joined by his siblings. Brandon glanced at Lyanna and Ben. Ben looked about awkwardly as though he didn't know why he was there, maybe he thought he was about to be married off to Robert Baratheon instead. But Lyanna, poor Lyanna looked numb. She had told them that she resented being a woman, to be sold off like cattle to the highest bidder. He didn't blame her. They reached Ned and he looked up at their father as they stood before him and Rickard cleared his throat.  
"Lord Robert." Brandon nodded at him and bowed. Ben did the same and Lyanna curtsied.  
"Children. Lord Robert has asked me for Lyanna's hand in marriage." He heard her beside him hold her breath her hand were clasped behind her back and they were clenched in tight fists the white knuckles showing through her smooth skin. "I have granted it. After the tourney at Harrenhal you will ride together to Storm's End and before the year is done be married." Lyanna was an unmoving stone wall, her expression did not change and she stared at their father with no emotion at all. "Lyanna?" After she did not respond he prompted her. She looked around for a moment as if she had forgotten where she was.  
"Yes father. It is an honour my lord." She curtsied again to Robert.  
"The honour is mine my lady. I have watched you grow into a beautiful woman and have longed to make you my own. You will be the most beloved Lady Baratheon there ever was or shall be." She smiled weakly at Robert's kind words.  
"Now that my daughter is betrothed and to marry a great lord it is high time my heir married too." His brothers and sister turned their heads to stare at him astonished. _Marry? Now?_ "There will always be a Stark at Winterfell and to continue that you must produce an heir of your own Brandon." He looked up at his father dumbfounded but his face was as cold as the Wall. Lord Rickard would do this from time to time. He would treat his children as warmly as any father could but then when his duty was upon him he would turn to ice before their very eyes. "It has been arranged that you shall marry Lady Catelyn Tully of Riverrun. Her father has agreed and after the tourney you will go to the Riverlands and ask for her hand in marriage." The Stark siblings stared at their oldest brother horrified, it couldn't be this already. Brandon was a man but he still felt like a boy. Could he really be marrying a woman and having children of his own when he himself was still a child? The silence lingered again.  
"Yes father." Was all he could manage, like Lyanna did he wanted to leave immediately and seek solace somewhere. The godswood.  
"Well Lord Robert has had a long journey. We will celebrate the union of our houses tonight my lord." Brandon turned and walked as fast as he could out of the hall and his siblings did the same. They all knew they were going to the same place before they noticed and soon enough leaves crunched underfoot and the trees dappled the light above. The glassy water of the pool next to the heart tree rippled in an unfelt breeze and reflected the tree's bloody face. They sat in silence at the base of the tree round the edge of the pool gazing into its murky depths. The trees rustled in the breeze and Lyanna's hair blew wildly around her.  
"So this is it then." Ben said finally. He looked around at his older brothers and sister and for once did not look for the humour.  
"Lyanna, I thought this was what you wanted? I'm sorry I..." Ned turned to her and placed his hand on hers but she shook her head sadly.  
"No Ned, Lord Robert is as good as any man. It is not the wedding or even the marriage that makes me so sad. It is leaving you, leaving Brandon and Ben and Father and Winterfell."  
"It had to happen sometime." Brandon said  
"It doesn't make it any less terrible." Ben sighed. He was right, just because they had always known one day they would take completely separate paths that would not lead back to each other it didn't mean now the day had come it was any more welcome.  
"I hear Catelyn Tully is very attractive Bran." He shrugged. What difference does it make? Maiden or troll she was not the girl he had fallen in love with and chosen to marry. In the end just because he was a Lords son he had no more right to rule his own life than anyone else. At least peasants choose their wives. They dissolved into silence once more and the reflection in the pool showed a solemn vision. Footfall in the distance began to reverberate in the clearing and soon the image of their father in his mighty fur cloak was visible through the trees.  
"I thought I would find you here." He said softly. "What is it my children pray for today?" None of them answered him and he sat down heavily beside Brandon who did not look at him. "You are closer than any siblings I know and to watch you grow up together has been a joy. Do not think that sending your sister away does not grieve me as much as you but Robert is an excellent match who will treat her kindly and love her. Which is all anyone can ask."  
"And what of my match?" He stared at his father in his deep grey eyes. He placed his hand on his son's cheek gently.  
"The Tully's are a great house and Lord Hoster's daughter is a fine match Brandon."  
"And if I don't want to marry her?" Rickard stood heavily and began to walk away from them and looked back before he reached the edge of the clearing.  
"I know you mourn. But you are no longer children. You are men and women and you must lead the paths of your own lives. Winterfell will always be your home, you are Starks, children of the North and it will be a part of you always. You must do your duty to your house. As I did. For honour." With that he turned and was gone.


	3. Rhaegar

He plucked the strings between his long fingers and the sound reverberated around the room, he tried to play a song men could sing in jest or joy but his fingers always drew melancholy from the harp. He pushed a strand of silvery hair from his eyes and decided to not fight the melody any longer, soon a longing song played and he hummed a tune along with it.  
"That's very sad father, are you sad?" A little girl stood in the doorway in a lilac silk dress with her shoulder length brown curls brushed out so it framed her heart shaped face. She clutched a doll and surveyed him with her doe eyes. His precious daughter Rhaenys. She didn't look a thing like him but she had a temper, a little spark in her which was all his. She looked more like his wife than blood of the dragon yet it did not matter. From the moment he held her, screaming and bloody he had loved her. She had opened those big brown eyes to the world and he had never wanted to let go.  
"No my little one, I am not sad. How can I be sad when you are here?" He beckoned for her to come forward and she shuffled towards him eagerly. He picked her up and placed her on his lap where she nuzzled into his velvet doublet and he kissed the top of her head gently. "Shall we play the harp together?"  
"Yes please but I don't know how." She placed chubby fingers on the strings, stretching out to reach them. He moved the harp closer and readjusted her on his lap.  
"Put your hands over mine Rhaenys, we will play together." He said putting his hands on the harp as she rested her own hands on his. He began to play and she looked over her shoulder at him beaming.  
"I'm playing!" He couldn't help but grin at her delight. When Elia had told him she was with child he had momentarily gone numb. His own father had been cruel and unloving, he had always feared that if he ever had a child of his own he might become like Aerys. But now he looked on his daughter he hated his father more, how could you not love your own child? They are a part of you. His royal sire was never much of a father or much of a King for that matter. He would openly mock Rhaegar when he was young and loved to read, the maester would tell him pay no mind to it but his father's words would float back to him as he drifted off to sleep. Rhaegar decided to pick up a sword, lance and shield, be a knight to make the King proud and when he won his first tourney he was hailed the greatest knight in the Kingdom but Aerys just stood by silent and icy.  
"So this is where you ran off to?" Princess Elia stood in the doorway her daughter had come through. She was a Princess of Dorne and had the long dark hair she had given to her daughter. Her heart shaped face was flushed and pretty as the sunlight streamed in through open windows. She picked up the doll Rhaenys had flung aside and walked to sit beside him. She stroked her daughter's hair lovingly and Rhaegar thought back to when he had almost lost them both. The birth had been traumatic for Elia, she was so small in frame and the maester feared she had lost too much blood to deliver the babe. It was a relief when Rhaegar heard the ear-piercing screams of both mother and child but Elia had never been the same after. She was frailer and weaker than the bride he had promised his life to not so long ago. "It is time for your lesson with Prince Viserys."  
"But mother I was playing."  
"I know my love, but a Princess must know how to read as well as play. Go on." Elia handed her the doll and Rhaegar placed her back down on the floor. Rhaenys turned and stomped out of the room angrily and Rhaegar grinned as she did.  
"Funny little thing isn't she?" He said happily. Elia rested her head on his shoulder and he continued to play lazily. He closed his eyes and he felt her shallow breath in his hair. She placed a hand on his knee and it slowly began to move up his thigh. He ignored it and continued playing. Her hand was edging further and further towards his groin and he clenched his jaw tightly. He cared for Elia very much, he wanted to protect her and make her happy. But deep in his heart he knew there was no love there, not on his part. As she reached his groin he stopped playing, pushing the harp aside and he felt her hand through the material of his breeches with her breath his ear. He stood suddenly and she looked wide-eyed at him, shocked.  
"Give me leave Princess, I have to meet with the council." He strode towards the door, looking back only as he had reached it. There sat his beautiful wife, dressed in his colours, her hair flowing around her glassy eyes, longing for him to stay.

"The King will not be joining us my Prince." Unsurprising, his father rarely joined them of late. He spent his time muttering to himself and would appear covered in ash with burns in his clothes. _He's no dragon_ , he thought. "Shall we begin?"  
"Yes Lord Tywin, I suppose we must." The council chamber was assembled and Lord Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King had called him to stand in place of his father. Lord Tywin had a gaunt face with short grey hair that had once been gold. He was clean shaven that accentuated his hard face with its grave expression. Beside him sat Lord Varys, master of whisperers who knew everything about everyone, and sometimes knew words before you even spoke them. His little birds fed him information from throughout the castle and one had to be careful of who was listening. On Rhaegar's other side was Lord Gerold Hightower, Commander of the Kingsguard, in gleaming armour and white cloak.  
"The first matter of council, the King's spending." Lord Tywin spread papers before him.  
"Where is Master of Coin, shouldn't he be consulted on this matter?" asked Rhaegar Tywin looking about the council room.  
"He is indisposed." Said Lord Tywin bluntly.  
"The King had been spending an inaudible amount of gold for his own personal use."  
"By inaudible we mean?" Rhaegar waved his hand in air, grasping the figure.  
"A hundred thousand Dragons." He stared wide eyed at The Hand of the King. He was well aware his house was in huge debt to the Lannister's but for his father to be spending a small fortune on gods know what was unacceptable, whether he was the King or not.  
"A hundred thousand?" He looked around at the other members of the council for explanation. "What is he buying that costs that amount of gold!?"  
"We do not question him my prince. He is the King after all." Lord Varys tittered in his reedy voice.  
"A mad one" Rhaegar muttered.  
"Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin my prince." Lord Gerold whispered across to him.  
"The King is a difficult man to deny my Prince." Tywin added,  
"You are the Hand of the King Lord Tywin, you are meant to council. So give him council."  
"A King who does not ask for council will not take it Prince Rhaegar." Said Lord Gerold his deep voice booming across the room.  
"So what will we do to resolve this matter?" enquired Lord Varys.  
"We? You have known about this for however long and done nothing. You mean me." Rhaegar accused.  
" _We_ serve the King my prince." Lord Varys surveyed Rhaegar with beady, watery eyes.  
"And I am here in his place or did you invite me for ceremony? Did you need a royal to sit in this chair? If so let us fetch Prince Viserys maybe a two year old can offer you some wisdom." He sighed again; these Lords were as foolish as his father. Not one of them could rein him in, they were too cowardly. Too scared to ignite his wrath. "My command is that this spending cease immediately."  
"Very well my Prince." Lord Tywin nodded and dipped a peacock feather quill into ink and wrote a note down before shuffling through more papers.  
"Next." Drawled Rhaegar lazily.  
"Plans for the Tourney at Harrenhal my prince." Said Lord Tywin.  
"I will ride with Ser Arthur and my wife, taking my kinsmen. The rest of the Kingsguard shall stay to guard the King." Rhaegar moved his chair back hoping to be done with the issue. Any details could be arranged by them, it was not his job to be doing those chores. He rose slightly from his chair but Lord Varys coughed softly, interrupting him.  
"I fear that may pose a dilemma Prince Rhaegar."  
"Why is that Lord Varys?"  
"The King plans to attend the Tourney."  
"Attend the Tourney at Harrenhal? He is aware it is at Harrenhal and not his bed chamber?" His father had not left the castle for nearly seven years, he doubted he would travel to watch some parading of boys in expensive armour.  
"I am sure the King is aware but I shall inform if he is not." The eunuch smirked.  
"Why after half a year and six has he decided now is the time to venture out?" he questioned suspiciously.  
"To see his son be crowned champion my Prince."  
"I doubt it." He guffawed. His father never cared for him, not made no difference to Aerys whether Rhaegar read or fought. Varys was lying that much was clear, but why? The spider whispered secrets in his father's ear and his spies watched from all places. Nowhere was private and no secret was truly secret. "Who do you serve Lord Varys?" his blunt question caused Lord Tywin to raise a blonde eyebrow in his sharp face.  
"Pardon prince?" He raised his pale eyebrows in a look of mild amusement.  
"Well we all serve different individuals do we not? Lord Tywin is Hand of the King; he serves House Lannister, his children, his banner men, the King and himself. I serve my house, my men, my family and me. But who do you serve? Truly?"  
"The realm Prince Rhaegar." Rhaegar laughed but Lord Varys retained his slight smile. Rhaegar watched him for a moment and looked around at Gerold and Tywin. It seemed he must settle this matter as well. He rose from his seat as he spoke.  
"Make arrangements for the King and his guard to ride to Harrenhal with us in a fortnight. If that is all Lord Tywin, we are finished." Lord Tywin nodded and gathered his papers. His crimson cloak swung round the door after him and Lord Varys followed pattering silently on silk slippers. When his bald head had disappeared from view Rhaegar called to Lord Gerold who had begun to make his way to the door. "Lord Gerold, a moment." The Lord Commander in his mighty silver armour turned and walked back towards the table his white cloak fluttering gently. Their plans to gather Lords at Harrenhal to discuss whether his father was really capable to be on the throne, or sane enough could not go forward. "We must behave as if nothing was planned; I will not have this happen under my father's nose in case he catches its scent. Undo any plans you made, understood?"  
"Yes Prince Rhaegar." Lord Gerold nodded.  
"Why now? Why Harrenhal?"  
"He heard whispers my prince." They walked through the narrow door of the council room and Lord Gerold lowered his voice as they passed into the great hall.  
"No doubt he did. The eunuch is an excellent spider." They entered the great throne room that housed the Iron Throne, the seat of the King of Westoros. The cool marble floors were bathed in the midday sun streaming in through the high windows but it wasn't the throne or the patterned floors that drew most people's eyes. Along the walls in the shadows were the skeletons of the mighty dragons that the Targaryens of old had ridden. Near the far door were the most stunted, mutated versions that the most recent kings had tried and failed to breed but the closer you got towards the throne the larger they became. The two that flanked the throne were colossal beasts that could swallow armies and burn cities to the ground with one breath. Their teeth were as long as swords and sharp as knives, even in death they held a majestic quality and the eyes that should have been there watched you threateningly from the dark. "If you come to this room and do not imagine yourself upon the throne then you don't have any balls. Maybe that's why Varys never glances at it."  
"A man who spends his life chasing horizons will die weary Prince Rhaegar." Lord Gerold said wisely. Rhaegar nodded in agreement.  
"Tired and unsatisfied. And a fool." Maybe Varys was wiser than he gave him credit for. He could never sit the throne, there was no point in the eunuch chasing something that would never be his, so he would whisper lies into the ear of an already mad king and drive him to destruction instead. A King might rule, but who rules a King? Rhaegar walked up the dais to the throne and ran his hands lightly over the blades that adorned the back. His father was scared to sit there anymore after the hundreds of times he had cut himself and now was so afraid of any blade he did not shave or cut his nails. The only weapons he allowed anywhere near him were those that the Kingsguard wore to protect him. "Has the King chosen a new brother for you yet?" He asked absent-mindedly.  
"Aye, it will be done at Harrenhal." Gerold nodded.  
"So? Who is the lucky man?"  
"You may call him a man Prince, I call him a boy. Ser Jaime Lannister."  
"Ser Jaime?" Rhaegar raised a brow, the boy was a talented knight but more seasoned men were usually chosen for the Kingsguard. "He must be four and ten at most..."  
"That he is my prince."  
"And if he accepts Lord Tywin will be without an heir. I'm sure my father has chosen him more for that than the skill of the boy's hand."  
"There is skill to be had but one so young to pledge his life to the sword... it is hardly a life at all."  
"Not that the King cares much for Jaime Lannister's life." Rhaegar shrugged, the poor boy would pledge his life for his King's with no knowledge of what he would give up. They do it for honour, but in the end there is no honour in death, in killing, in war.  
"You will be a greater King, my prince."  
"I already am a great King. I rule this kingdom whilst my father plays with fire yet because I do not wear the crown I am not called King." He stood in front of the throne but did not sit, not yet.


	4. Lyanna

Lyanna

 

She walked out into the forest around Harrenhal to get away from the hundreds of people milling around the ruined castle. She had crept into Ben's tent and stolen a pair of black woollen breeches that clung tightly to her shapely legs. All women should wear these; they are so much more comfortable. She had thrown over it a powder blue shirt with the direwolf's howling head emblazoned across it. She threw a long bow with goose feather quivers over her shoulder. As she crossed the yard a few servants carrying out their early morning chores looked upon her curiously, this was a grand tournament and all the women wanted to look their best at all times, they must have thought her odd to be dressed like a man. But Lyanna was tired of being a lady. She craved the feel of the steel in her hands and the boundless jokes of her brothers. She had dined with other highborn ladies since arriving and they clucked over knights and princes until she had wanted to scream. If one more of these ludicrous ladies asked for the details of her wedding or praised her on how handsome Robert was or how she would make a fine Lady Baratheon she might throw herself from the Kingspyre. She came to the back door of the kitchens and a tall gangly teen with a pocked marked, freckled face and sandy hair stood over a tray of buns, the smell filled the room and Lyanna's stomach rumbled hungrily.  
"Good morning." She smiled charmingly at the boy. He turned and eyed her suspiciously at first and his eye crept to her chest. She wasn't sure if it was her cleavage or the Stark wolf that made him straighten up and dust his hands on his apron.  
"My lady."  
"It's Lyanna; I've never been much of a lady. Do you think you could get me some bread and water?"  
He blushed fiercely as he met her gaze and immediately averted his gaze, a force of habit she assumed. She hated that. He muffled a polite answer and busied himself with collecting things for her. Other cooks hurried about the kitchens, preparing the morning meal for the thousand or so guests currently at Harrenhal. Breads rose swiftly in ovens and fish fried sizzling sweetly, fruits of every shade bloomed from bowls and baskets in every corner and a great hog turned slowly on a spit in the centre. The boy came back with a dirty brown leather bag and placed it in her hands, looking down once more.  
"Thank you – what's your name?"  
"My name my lady? They call me Butter round 'ere." He blushed again, a sweet thing she thought. He must be just a little younger than Ben but how different their lives could be. Ben had grown up in a castle, taught to read and write and fight with sword, spear and lance. Butter must have worked every day since he was able to stand and whilst Ben would be a knight, Butter would grow old at Harrenhal and probably never leave. She looked on his face sadly.  
"Well thank you Butter." She touched his hand lightly and his floured hand was rough on hers as she smiled kindly at him. She turned and crossed back through the courtyard and towards the gate. As she came to it a great host was galloping through baring a banner of crimson with a great lion in gold. "Lannister's" she muttered, slipping past the host .She knew they would come, their father was Hand to the King and if word was to be believed he was as much as a tyrant as the King himself. Lyanna made her way out into the courtyard of the great keep and the sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky. Her high boots scattered the dust where she walked in tiny billows. Ser Jaime Lannister, Tywin's son and the heir to Casterly Rock sat basking in the sun cat like, a golden sword upon his knee and a whetstone in his hand. His golden armour glimmered in the light and his matching yellow hair shone like spun gold. Lyanna watched him sharpen his longsword, the stone sending a satisfying ring around the courtyard. She watched him a while before slipping past him and beneath the thick walls of the keep. As she reached the narrow treed forest she slipped in amongst the foliage and began to move swiftly putting the castle behind her until she could no longer see it through the trees but if she looked to the sky the great ruined towers stretched out. The stone had been molten and the towers melted beneath the immense heat of the dragonfire and all within perished in the flames. Old Nan had told her that story many times and she had dreamed of huge scaled dragons beating vast dark wings with bloody eyes and sharp teeth. She made her way to the lake that lay beyond this narrow part of the forest she knew it lay east to the castle and followed the rising sun. She walked for a long while and the sun was soon high in the sky. It felt peaceful to be back amongst the trees after so many weeks of riding. She felt at home here with the leaves and moss beneath her boots the breeze lifting her hair and birdsong filling her ears. Ned had always said the Starks were wolves, they weren't made for stone walls or wooden keeps, they were made for the woods and that is where we belonged. He'd told her that in the godswood at Winterfell when she was only seven and he had left not long after to be a warden of Lord Jon Arryn with Robert Baratheon. She had cried and cried the day he left but he told her about the woods and said "Don't worry sister, where I go you are with me. Always." She had nodded shaking her dark curls tearfully.  
"Always."Lyanna whispered the word into the empty woods. She chose a tree and stood twenty feet from it and strung an arrow lightly in her bow, drawing back her arm pulling the arrow and string with it to her ear. It whooshed past her and landed a little to the left of the knot in the bark she'd been aiming for. She nodded approvingly. _Good enough_ , she thought. She let loose all her arrows, all landing around the first, it felt satisfying to be holding a bow in her hands once more. When Brandon and Ned had been fostered away to other castles she would practice for hours alone, she pretended the trees were her brothers mocking her as they used to do, coaxing her into an attack and laughing when they pinned her down. She had cried as she held Ned's hand tightly in hers as they watched Brandon ride away to Barrowton weeping silently as he became a dark blur in the distance. When it was decided Ned was to be sent to the Eyrie with Robert she begged her father to let him stay but Lord Rickard had just knelt beside her and patted her cheek saying "He will come back Lyanna, Winterfell is his home and he is a North man. They always come back; they feel it calling to them." She nodded, scuffing her toes on the flagstones beneath, she hated him in that moment for making her feel so alone. He sighed as she glared at him moodily and he stroked her hair lovingly. "One day, when you leave me too you will feel it calling you home. You will know then." He left her standing in his chamber and thought she would never understand why a man would send away his children. She felt the North calling to her now though, now she was many leagues away in the forest of Harrenhal. It was as if it knew she would not return there, that she was to carry on to the Stormlands to live at Storm's End until her wedding to Robert not knowing when she would walk the woods again. Muffled shouting through the trees interrupted her thoughts, she had been walking towards the tree to collect her arrow that were wedged there but she drew her dagger instead, throwing the bow to the floor and ran through the trees to the sound, weaving in and out of the tangle of branches. She cut down the trees that jutted out in her way and as the shouting grew louder she quickened her pace. A root hidden beneath layers of untouched fallen leaves and slick moss caught her foot and she went tumbling to the ground, a branch ripping through her tunic as she fell, she felt a sharp pain where the branch had cut her but she leapt to her feet and continued. The lake came within sight between the thinning trees, its glassy surface reflecting the midday sun and three figures could be seen by the shore. She slowed now, her breath ragged from the sprint, her chest rising swiftly under the ruined shirt. She watched them poke at a cowering figure on the ground with sharp thin daggers joking noisily to each other. They were dressed in squire's clothing and they must have all belonged to a different house by the looks of them. She crept closer, wincing as a twig cracked loudly beneath her foot. One of the squires moved round the other side of the man on the ground and Lyanna saw him clearly for the first time. Muddy and sodden with a weary look about him, with dark hair and piercing moss green eyes. He seemed small for a man but still strong.  
"Ha! A frogeater, thought you were meant to be fighters?" A pimpled squire jabbed at him with the sharp pointed dagger, cutting his face. Blood trickled from his wound but the Crannogman did not move his eyes stared through the trees at Lyanna. Crannogmen were from the North, their seat of Greywater Watch was located as one of the most southern points of her father's Northern territory, they defended the Neck ferociously and many men refused to pass it for fear the moving unseen fortress of Greywater would assault them. The Crannogman was staring at the wolf on her chest and then his penetrating eyes moved to the dagger drawn in her steady hand, she thought he gave her a shade of a nod but she couldn't be sure for he hardly moved. She jumped out the trees where she was concealed and her blade glinted in the light, the squire facing her stood mouth hanging open in stupid surprise as she stood behind his friends. She took her dagger and dug it into the back of one of the squires with his back to her.  
"Oi! What do you think you're doing?" She demanded, the squire with the sword in his back straightened at the steel touch and the other reeled around to face her.  
"Bugger off girl; this is naught to do with you." He brandished his blunt knife pathetically at her as he said it, waving it through the air. In one swift movement she pushed the boy at point to the floor and knocked the knife from the others hand with her dagger. The weak blade shattered when it connected with the steel and the squire scrambled back still holding the hilt of his broken knife in one hand. The other squires moved beside him giving the reach of her arm a wide birth. She stood now between the Crannogman and the boys brandishing the metal at them as they took steps back away from it.  
"Girl? This is my father's man that you attack _boys_. My father the Lord of Winterfell." They looked at each other aghast and one pox marked boy fell to his knees.  
"Lady Lyanna? I- we did not recognise you. Please forgive us." He begged pathetically.  
"It's not me you should apologise to idiot, it's him" She pointed at the man behind her. "Not that it will heal those cuts any faster. Get out of here before I call my brothers from the castle you loathsome cravens." They turned on their heels and scuttled off through the forest as quick as their spindly legs could carry them.


	5. Brandon

Brandon

 

The day was bright, streaming in through the opening as he stared lazily at his meal. The light crisp Dornish wine was being poured by a buxom honey  
haired girl with an old scar marring her otherwise pretty face. As she poured for him he noticed she would stare at him more than necessary then flush crimson. He smirked at the thought. Women were so easy, for him anyway, Ned was too reserved and Ben too young to be any kind of competition. He chewed a mouthful of stew absent mindedly, thinking of all the ways he could have that girl. Ned strode in, a Northerner in grey. He was solemn, shy and quiet but dependable with a great sense of justice. Brandon was glad of his level headed brother when his own temper got the better of him, which was more often than not.  
"Where-"Brandon started.  
"Godswood." He sat heavily in an oaken chair and the serving girl busied herself with arranging his food, when she came forward he waved her away with a grim smile as Brandon gulped back mead.  
"What are you praying for?"  
"Today? For Lyanna and her wedding. For you, in the tourney." Brandon smiled.  
"I appreciate it Ned. As for Lyanna, Gods know what any man sees in her, I see the little girl covered in mud brandishing a damned wooden sword at me." He chuckled at the memory.  
"She is still that girl." He set his spoon aside and pushed the plate away from him. Benjen walked through the tent, his hair ruffled and dark circles under his eyes. As he walked in from the light he shielded his eyes and rubbed his forefingers into his temples, when the Ethan, Brandon's squire pulled out the chair that scraped noisily over the wooden floor he winced. "Good _evening_ my lord." Ben looked over at Brandon with a glare.  
"It's not that late." He muttered darkly. When the serving girl poured wine for him he nearly gagged as he smelt it, practically hitting her hand away.  
"Not in the mood for a drink Ben?" Ned smirked secretly into his cup. "Come! Let us drink to this fine day." Brandon stood and raised his glass, looking pointedly at Ben to do the same. Ben eyed the cup of wine that he had pushed an arm's length away from, reaching for it wearily. He put it to his lips and they parted as he tipped it. Just before the amber liquid reached his lips he slammed it down, defeated.  
"I can't! No. Fine, you win. I'm drunksick."  
"Ha! Ben, this is the day you are man." He walked over and patted his brother on the back. Ned rolled his eyes and Ben sighed putting his head in his hands. "Happens to us all, gods my first time was terrible. Father had to carry me to my chamber."  
"Father?"  
"Let us say he was not best pleased." Ned chuckled across the table nodding in agreement.  
"And you Ned?" Ben widened his eyes hopefully, thinking maybe Ned was too honourable to be drunk. He looked at Ben slowly and smiled.  
"I lived many days with Robert Baratheon; judge what you will from that" Benjen grinned weakly, comforted that his much more respectable brother had been like him once. From outside a man moaned and footsteps floated through the camp into the large round tent. They all turned and looked at the sound.  
"Sorry, you're heavier than I thought." Lyanna's voice rose from the muffled sounds. Ned stood and strode to the door and strode quickly towards them.  
"Ned- "  
"Seven hells Lyanna!" The echoing grew louder and louder until in the tent opening stood Ned, wearing a look of severe agitation, Lyanna dressed like a man with twigs in her long hair and blood across her pale skin. In between the two being held up by his siblings was a short green eyed man, dressed in rags was sodden and bloodied. Dark, deep cuts were visible beneath his shirt and through his torn breeches. A trickle of blood ran diagonally across his forehead seeping into his eyes. Ben and Brandon ran forward to help them and Brandon grabbed the arm of the man Lyanna was holding, taking his weight from her and she sighed as he did. She looked around the room at the dumbfounded serving girl.  
"The maester, now." She left hurriedly though gazing at the man that Ned and Brandon now pushed into Brandon's vacant chair.  
"He's a Crannogman..." Ben whispered in amazement. The man certainly had the look of the Neck about him, small and slender but no doubt wickedly fast. Lyanna busied herself with hot water and ripping a silk table cloth to shreds with a glinting dagger.  
"Lyanna what the bloody hell is going on?" Brandon demanded. Lyanna turned back to the table with the water and silk bandages, barely glancing at him as she spoke.  
"There were squires, they were attacking him by the lake, I couldn't leave him!" She looked guiltily on the man and then back to Brandon with big orb like eyes.  
"We must find them; they must be punished for attacking an innocent man." Ned placed a hand on the wooden chairs back as he spoke.  
"I'd do my own justice if that please you, wolf." The man had spoken in a deep throaty voice that had an almost song like tone. His eyes darted between them, watching them all suspiciously.  
"What is your name ser?" Brandon knelt before the chair. His moss coloured eyes felt penetrating as if they knew every secret he had ever dared to dream.  
"I am Ser Howland Reed of Greywater Watch." His voice cracked as he spoke though he had not done so in a while. Ned bowed his head politely and Lyanna and Ben did the same but Brandon kept his focus. The Reed's were notorious recluses, as were all the Crannogman and Harrenhal was a mighty long way from the Neck even if the castle did move. Any man could say he was any lord, but why would Howland Reed be so far from home?  
"You are a long way from the North now. What brings you from Greywater?" Ser Howland looked at Lyanna nervously and she smiled gently, nodding her head encouraging him to speak openly.  
"You are our father's man Ser Howland, nothing you say here shall leave this room unless you permit it." Howland nodded curtly.  
"We at the Neck hold the old gods. There is a place in the lake where it is said the children of the forest still dwell and I came many moons ago to seek them for myself and to see the world beyond."  
"The children are dead."  
"Then why do you pray to them wolf?" Ned had sat heavily in his previous seat and leant against the oak table staring intensely at the man. He wiped a drop of blood from his eyes and Lyanna resumed dipping the bandages in water soaking up the blood slowly. "I crossed the river and came upon the boys on the banks. I was weak from a long winter and a hard swim. Not all like the look of the Neck. The She-wolf saved me." Lyanna pressed a cloth to his thigh and he flinched, she whispered an apology and concentrated on her work. When the maester came Ser Howland was patched up and given milk of the poppy to help him sleep. Ned offered him his own tent until other arrangements could be made and Ben returned to bed to sleep off his heavy head. Ned and Brandon returned from the tent having lifted the Crannogman into Ned's bed and left him with the maester. Lyanna was sitting in a chair with a bowl of water in front of her washing Howland's blood of her hands, the water turning a pinkish red as she cleaned. The moment they entered she looked up and stared at them uneasily.  
"I'm sorry I know I shouldn't have gone out there with my bow but I couldn't leave him. They were hurting him and I-"Brandon held up his hands defensively and sat back down with a sigh.  
"No you were right to bring him here. He will be safer here than trying to get back to the Neck in his current health." Lyanna departed to clean herself and change into more ladylike attire and Ned returned to the maester and the Crannogman. Brandon was tired already, it was probably only late afternoon. He should send a letter to his father about Ser Howland, he was the son of a Lord, Rickard should know. He looked upon the nearest tower, it was a monstrous building and the room high ceilinged and cavernous, every floor was a separate chamber though the tower continued higher but had fallen into disrepair since the War of Conquest. Where the dragonfire had turned the stone molten, giant holes had appeared in the rock. He turned into his tent and made for the desk, pulling out the chair as he did.  
"Ethan!" He bellowed. A clattering of pots from outside and then hurried footsteps. A gangly boy with a mass of dark curls stood breathing heavily in the door way. "I need ink and parchment."  
"Yes ser." He turned on his heel and ran back. As the sound of his squire faded into the distance he considered what he would write. _Would father even care about this?_ He should know anyway, the Reeds are his men. The sun had set by the time he had finished and the sent the squire off to the ravenry. He gathered up the letters he had written that he deemed not good enough and threw them into the fire beside him. He pulled his blue doublet from his chest and threw it onto the bed that occupied the majority of the room; he selected another grey one from his trunk and pulled it over his head. Tomorrow was the tourney and the whole castle was alive with excitement, the servants buzzed as much as the guests and Lord Whent left no stone unturned in his quest to please the King and his subjects. Another great feast lay before them tonight and Brandon missed the days when he could ride out to a little town, find a pretty girl and forget about the duties of being the heir to Winterfell could bring. _There was much more freedom in being common born_ , he thought. He hung a cloak about his shoulders clasping it with two silver wolves. Ethan coughed in the entrance to signal his arrival.  
"Yes Ethan?"  
"Ser Benjen is here, may he enter ser?"  
"Of course I can bloody enter." Ben came in wearing a similar doublet to Brandon pushing Ethan aside rudely. "I'm his brother."  
"Sorry for my brother Ethan." He smiled; shaking his head at Ben and Ethan nodded and exited the tent. "I could have been naked."  
"And I would not have been impressed I'm sure." He laughed and slapped Ben playfully on the back as he did.  
"The others are?"  
"With Ser Howland, I think Lyanna has convinced him to come to the feast." Ben said perching himself on the end of the bed.  
"How is he?"  
"Better, much better." Said Benjen.  
"Good." They waited a little in silence whilst Brandon put on his sword belt and ran his fingers roughly through his dark hair. Lyanna came first in a satin dress of deep blue that revealed the tops of her shoulders and had a bodice that looked almost impossible to breathe in.  
"I hate this dress." She said immediately. Her hair had been brushed into waves and she looked completely different from the ragged mud covered girl from earlier. She tugged at the lacing of the corset. "I can't breathe" She whined softly.  
"I do not envy being a woman." Benjen chuckled. She stared at him and picked up one of the scrunched up letters still littered across the desk, lobbing it at his head.  
"Shut up Ben." Ned entered with Howland Reed, Ned in a grey doublet with the direwolf embroided in silver across it. Ser Howland was in plainer clothes of green.  
"You look better Ser Howland."  
"Just Howland will do wolf." His croaky voice said. "Rest does a man wonders."  
"Aye, it does. Shall we go?" Brandon lead the way through the crowded camp of men of every house. Most women had been given lodgings inside the castle but Lyanna had requested to stay close to her brothers rather than the other highborn ladies. They walked through into the castle's humongous Hall of a Hundred Hearths, each section of the hall had been divided for the members of each great house decorated with their colours. Stark, Lannister and Baratheon stood closest to the Dais at the end of the hall which would seat the King, his family and his knights. Brandon saw as he approached his seat that the Lannister twins were already seated, close together and surrounded by their men. Jaime, golden haired and young beamed as they past and Brandon returned the smile. His sister Cersei raised one sharp eyebrow and turned back to her brother. She was blonde and beautiful but wore a look of contempt that made his own temper flare slightly.  
"Where is the lion lord, with the king?" Howland muttered beside him.  
"No, word is they quarrelled so he left the Hand at Kings Landing." Howland looked surprised and nodded. They took their seats and Brandon offered Howland the one to his left which he took graciously and Lyanna sat herself beside Howland. The hall filled with lords and ladies, knights and servants alike, sitting beneath banners of every shade. Sitting amongst them were his kinsmen Kyle Royce of House Royce from Runestone on the Narrow Sea, Elbert Arryn, Lord Arryn of the Vale's nephew and heir and Jeffory Mallister of House Mallister that reigned over castle Seagard in the Riverlands.  
"Brandon!" Kyle shouted across the table.  
"That's _ser_ to you Royce." He shouted back and Kyle guffawed with amusement.  
"Who is this? Your guest ser?" Elbert asked with a wicked smile creeping across his face, as if he were to mock the Crannogman. Lyanna turned to him and saw the look on his face.  
"He is a high lord, Elbert Arryn I would show him great respect." She raised her head high as she spoke in a commanding voice and Elbert seemed to shrink away from her and Brandon laughed. General merriment filled the hall as it crammed almost to bursting point. Brandon watched as a grinning Lord Robert waved at Lyanna as he sat across the hall and other houses took their seats.  
"That's them. The boys that hurt Howland." Lyanna pointed across the hall to the table that sat the Riverlands Lords and their men. The elderly Lord Frey was being served by a greasy haired squire that bore a tunic with the twin towers of Frey. Lord Haigh and Lord Blout sat further along being served by two squires, one fat and squat baring a pitchfork sigil and the other long and lean with the Blout porcupine on his chest.  
"Let me find you a sword Ser Howland, you can act your own vengeance. A sword and a horse to do with what you will." Said Ben fiercely. Howland Reed's mossy eyes looked across the hall at the squires who had dishonoured him, his hand twitched as if ready to strike. He looked uncertainly across at them and opened his mouth to speak as a pock marked crier, sweating with nerves shouted something barely audible over the din and blew his horn until he was red in the face. When the hall finally quietened he looked relieved and called.  
"The Kingsguard." The white cloaks were led in by their Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, the White Bull. Though not as young as he was once, any man could tell he wielded great power and strength. Following behind him was Prince Lewyn Martell of Dorne and Princess Elia's uncle. The tall blue eyed Ser Barristan Selmy stood beside the Prince and received a deafening applause as he entered the room. He was said to be the greatest knight that ever was, having served King Jaehaenys before King Aerys. Next, the older brother to the Lord of Harrenhal Ser Oswell Whent and beside him stood Ser Jonothor Darry. Bringing up the rear of the guard stood Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning. Deadliest of the Kingsguard, his great sword Dawn was slung across his back, jostling as he walked. They made their way to the Dais at the head of the hall and as they did Ser Arthur stopped to kiss the hand of his sister Lady Ashara. She was tall and slender with long black hair that fell past her waist, like many of Starfall house she had hauntingly pale violet eyes, she served as a lady-in-waiting to the Princess Elia. She looked on her brother lovingly as he took his seat. _She is fine-looking_ , Brandon thought. _I wish I were to marry her than Catelyn Tully but wishing gets you nowhere_. The squire, a little braver this time blew the horn again and cleared his throat before he called.  
"The Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and his wife Princess Elia of Dorne." The Prince walked in to the muted hall beaming at the crowd and walked slowly with his wife on his arm. He was tall and strong with silver blonde hair that fell just past his shoulders. He was dressed in the Targaryen colours of onyx and crimson. His handsome face scanned the room nodded at those he knew, as they reached the dais Brandon got a closer look at his wife Elia, she had the look of Dorne about her, skin touched by the sun and black hair, she was dressed in crimson to match her husband but other than that entirely unremarkable. As they took their place with Prince Rhaegar on the right of his King fathers chair the horn sounded once again.  
"Aerys Targaryen Second of His Name, King of the Seven Kingdoms." The King was giant but scarily thin with a long silver beard that flowed past his waist; his long fingernails were yellow with age and almost as long as his beard. It was said the Mad King grew them long for his fear of blades another reason he was unshaven. On top of his long thinning hair sat a great fiery crown, three dragons wrought in heavy ruby sat on gold. He glared suspiciously at the hall as they bowed and his shrewd features set in his gaunt face showed a look of disdain. As he sat in the chair of the Lord of Harrenhal between his son and the Commander of the Kingsguard he looked on the House Whent that sat the table below the Kings. He nodded curtly and the servants began to bustle about carrying huge trays laden with every kind of food imaginable. Brandon saw Howland face light up as a huge roasted duck smothered in a sweet honey sauce was laid in front of him and he licked his lips, ripping off a leg hurriedly.  
"Slow down Howland, it is not going to run off. It's dead." Howland grinned through the meat with grease running down his chin; clearly he had not seen in a good meal in a long time. Not surprising seeing he had spent an entire winter in a lake. The festivities continued and Brandon laughed and bantered with his brothers and sister. His kinsmen squeezed on the bench beside them and they drank for Brandon's luck in the tourney.  
"And who will wear your much desired favour Lady Lyanna?" Ser Jeffory called.  
"Well I'm considering Jaime Lannister..." He laughed and Brandon nudged her with his elbow. "But I think I may give it to Brandon." His men roared with delight and emptied their goblets. From the dais the Prince could be seen feeding his wife a strawberry and wiping the juice that ran down her chin with his finger, kissing her lightly then talking across her to whisper something to Ser Arthur. Prince Rhaegar was good friends with a majority of Kingsguard as many of them had been in service since before his birth, The royal Master-at-arms Ser Willem Darry had taught him how to use a sword and it was said after a year of tuition admitted there was no more he could teach the young prince. As he watched Ser Arthur nod to what Prince Rhaegar had told him, Arthur turned to the members of the guard beside him and seemed to recount it. Brandon thought back to a conversation he had with his father before he came to Harrenhal. _"The King is said to become more and more mad each passing day Brandon." He looked out across his chamber on Winterfell. "Be wary of his company."_  
 _"I will father." He had nodded._  
 _"Good."_  
 _"Why after so long at Kings Landing has he decided to leave now?"_  
 _"It is said that eunuch of his has been whispering in his ear, which does nothing for his suspicious mind."_  
 _"Whispering what?"_  
 _"That Prince Rhaegar has planned on using the tournament as an excuse to gather lords to him to cast down his father."_  
 _"His own father?" Brandon looked shocked._  
 _"Yes. Though in my mind Rhaegar is a born king and Aerys is an instant away from being consumed by madness."_  
 _"So you wish for it to happen?" His father sighed as he looked at him,_  
 _"I do not wish for death upon anyone my son, and only what is best for the realm. I would sooner live in peace here at Winterfell than have to send my sons off to a war that would surely come."_  
He wondered if that was true, looking at Rhaegar now it did seem as though the Kingsguard were in the palm of his hand. Aerys decision to leave his keep must be making the prince's plotting much more difficult. Brandon took a disliking to him, he was handsome and charming but any man willing to usurp his own father was no honorable man at all. All of a sudden Elia presented an ornate wooden high harp from beneath the table and presented to Rhaegar. He clapped with delight and plucked the strings, kissing her again. He thought he saw her say the words _sing_ but over the noise he could not be sure until others around them excluding the King demanded song and the hall hushed as Prince Rhaegar began to play a melancholy melody.

 _Never was a boy so sweet_  
as the boy born of fire  
Mournful boy there was to meet  
and not one remembered summer  
he loved a girl who never was  
who withered in the spring  
lovely as a winters rose  
with all the light the sun doth bring  
his father cruel as the lions rule  
so he sang and sang and sang words true  
And here he lies, gone too soon  
alone under stars and moon

The hall was silent for a moment after it finished, the last echoes of the song filling the high rafters. The crowd stood and clapped and cheered as Rhaegar bowed smiling.  
"Ha! Lyanna's crying!" Benjen roared with laughter and Brandon saw to see Lyanna wiping tears from slightly reddened eyes with swift movement as their table turned to watch her.  
"It was a sad song. Shut up Benjen you little-"Brandon cut her off by grabbing her arm, insulting their brother was not very ladylike, though amusing when it was just them, in company it was unwise. Ben continued to laugh as they sat down, mocking tears and calling out Rhaegar's name in a foolish high pitched voice that had the other men in stitches. Brandon watched Lyanna fume silently beside him her fingers clenching in tight fists on the table in front of her. She reached for her wine as Ben continued, grabbing the goblet she went to place it to her lips and as the men around her bellowed again she changed her mind and threw the contents of it over Ben's head. He sat in sodden disbelief as she pushed her chair back knocking it to the ground and stormed out of the hall in a flurry of sapphire satin. The men's laughter filled the great hall instantly and even Ned, solemn as he was laughed until a single tear had to be wiped from his cheek. All the men in the hall looked over curiously and when they saw Ben joined in amused. By the time the men on the dais chuckled, Ben was as furious as Lyanna had been.  
"To Lyanna!" Brandon shouted downing his glass and the men repeated the words doing the same, serving girls hurried to refill them as Lord Robert made his way over to them.  
"Starks! Was there ever a more pleasant sight!" He sat in Lyanna's now occupied chair and was about to continue when he spotted Benjen. He guffawed with a throaty laugh. "Not your finest look my boy." Benjen rolled his eyes and stood exiting the hall to change his clothes sulkily. _Better hope he doesn't meet Lyanna in the camp_ , he thought. Robert demanded a drinking game which was only suggested because he knew he would win. Robert Baratheon was a notorious drinker and much to dislike of his much more prudent brother spent most of his time with women, drinking Storms End's gold away. Ned moved beside Robert and Brandon turned to Howland to explain the rules but his seat was empty, he looked around the hall to see him but the Crannogman was small and the room was crowded, he must have slipped away when Lyanna and Ben were fighting. Robert passed Brandon a great golden cup of red wine and he eyed it wearily.  
"I better not; I've got to somehow defeat Prince Rhaegar, Jaime Lannister and two of the Kingsguard on the morrow, which is difficult enough without being drunksick." Robert shoved the cup closer, sloshing wine on the table.  
"Nonsense Brandon, if a little wine is all it takes for you to lose, my gold is on the wrong man."  
"All the more reason for me to decline Lord Robert. Wouldn't want you wasting your precious gold now."  
"Damn you Stark." He said defeated, slamming his cup on the tables annoyed. "Will no-one drink with me or have you all turned into maids since we last met?"  
"I'll challenge you Lord Robert." Ser Richard Lonmouth, the knight of skulls and kisses stood behind Ned. He had like many others at King's Landing he seemed to be a close friend of Rhaegar Targaryen's and his squire before he knighted him. Ned moved aside into Ben's seat and Ser Richard sat down as a maid poured eighteen cups of wine to each of the men. Brandon watched Ashara Dayne dance with her brother as a singer played a joyful tune. He turned back and Robert was already throwing back his wine, spilling it down his chin and Ser Richard was on his second cup. He would much rather watch Ashara so he moved next to Ned to get a better view as she twirled and whirled, giggling at something her brother had said. Her hair moved about her as if disturbed by a breeze and her eyes danced like her, with joy. From the dais below the King, Prince Oberyn Martell, the brother to the Princess stood and interrupted asking for his turn to dance with the Lady Ashara and Ser Arthur bowed and graciously handed his sister over. The Red Viper they called him due to his experiments with poisoned blades, he had been found with the paramour of another lord and the lord had demanded a duel. Being a prince the duel was only to first blood and Oberyn was victorious but soon the lord's wounds festered and he died, since then the Prince of Dorne was known as the Red Viper. He was a sharp looking man with arched eye brows, high cheekbones and shiny black hair that glinted in the candle light. He was as quick on his feet at the dance as he was at war and soon the lady was breathless. Others had joined them now twisting their wives and serving girls alike across the floor. Lord Jon Connington, Lord of Griffin's Roost soon asked for Ashara's hand, Brandon wondered if she was not tired yet. The Red Viper glared at him with sharp black eyes and bowed as he gave over her hand begrudgingly. The young, fire-haired lord chatted away and the girl smiled politely as they danced.  
"She is beautiful." He turned to see Ned was also watching Ashara with a look in his eyes that Brandon had not seen him wear before. It took him a moment to realise that it was _lust_. He sniggered at the thought, he had never thought Ned had any ounce of sexual desire within him but there he was probably thinking about every way he could fuck Ashara Dayne in the middle of a feast that included her brother and the King. He was almost proud of how crude it was. "What?"  
"Nothing, nothing." He composed himself; maybe it was time for brotherly advice and a nudge in the right direction. "You should ask her to dance."  
"Me?" Ned looked terrified, another look he had never seen him wear.  
"Yes you Ned."  
"I can't, no, there's so many people here what if she- no, I can't." He blithered. It amused Brandon even more to think that his brother was nervous, nervous and lascivious, words he would never associate with his composed and quiet younger brother.  
"I'll be back." Brandon got up and walked from the table.  
"Brandon..." Ned called warningly after him. He needed a push, just a nudge in the right direction. He was ten and eight and still a maiden, father would probably marry him off soon and he should ride a horse before purchasing a steed. Lord Connington had left Ashara now and she was sitting back with other members of House Dayne and other Starfall men. She was a lady companion of Elia Martell but allowed for the tourney to sit with members of her house. As he approached she turned her beautiful head and revealed straight pearly teeth in a great smile. She watched him hungrily he felt, her violet eyes looking his body up and down lustily.  
"Ser Brandon, it is so good to meet you."  
"And you my lady." He bowed his head and kissed the hand she offered him. "I was wondering if I may have a private word."  
"Of course." She ushered the men either side of her away and Brandon sat in a cushioned seat under the lavender and silver of her house. "May I say ser you are the most handsome man I have seen all night." She placed her hand on his that rested on the table and he felt a stirring in his groin as she looking deep in his eyes with her own almond shaped ones. _No, not now_ he thought. For Ned. _The things I do for my family_ he thought as he smiled and moved his hand to his lap.  
"Thank you my lady. I would compliment your beauty but I am no wordsmith and I'm sure you have heard it enough." She giggled seductively. "It is my brother I come to you for my lady. He has watched you from afar and I fear he will never be satisfied until you dance with him." She looked for a moment disappointed then regained her playful smile.  
"Well I would be honoured to dance with your brother but why does he not come to me himself ser?"  
"He is shy my lady. Young and quiet." She nodded in understanding and tried to look through the crowd to the Stark table to spy Ned.  
"Tell him I await him anxiously Ser Brandon."  
"Thank you Lady Ashara." He returned to the table and Ned was twisting a napkin in his hands.  
"Well?" He asked.  
"The Lady Ashara is waiting Ned." He pushed him out of his seat. "Go on." Ned took a deep breath, moved his dark tousled hair from his face and walked towards Ashara's table. As a new song began he led her to the floor and they danced and danced and danced. Brandon drank as he watched them and Ashara beamed at Ned and he did at her. She chuckled at his comments and she whispered in his ear. Prince Oberyn looked on moodily from his table as did all the other knights that lusted for her. They danced for what seemed like hours and Brandon had clearly drank more than he thought because soon his vision started to blur and Ashara's dark hair filled his eyes. He decided that maybe he should retire, the tourney was tomorrow and he needed as much rest as possible. He stood grasping the table as he stumbled and staggered slightly down the hall and out into the night. His squire had been dining with the other squires at the back of the hall and had followed Brandon out.  
"Ser! Ser!" Ethan grabbed him below the elbow and helped him lurch towards the tent and put him on the bed.  
"Thank you Ethan had more wine than I thought. Nothing to worry about." he slurred as Ethan smiled.  
"If that's all ser." He retreated out of the tent and blew out the candle as he went. Brandon lay back in the dark the room spinning around him. _This is a wonderful feeling_ , he thought, spinning forever. A noise interrupted his thoughts and he thought he heard the tent open but when he looked up it was fluttering in the breeze just as before. He shrugged; maybe he really was very drunk.  
"I hope you're not too drunk for me Ser." A sultry voice called from the dark. He sat up abruptly and looked around for the owner of the voice. A figure stepped from the black, her dark hair falling about her shoulders, unlacing her bodice as she walked towards him; he felt his groin stir again. No, not too drunk.


	6. Rhaegar

Rhaegar

His black stallion trotted beneath him the following day, in matching shining armour and the ground billowed dusty storms under his hooves. Rhaegar carried his helm under his arm and he nodded to the knights around him who bowed deeply as he passed.  
"Ser Oswell has four and ten dragons on you to win Prince Rhaegar." Called Prince Lewyn, who had galloped up to ride beside him, his ivory cloak swelling behind him. He had the sun touched skin of Dorne and hair black as night. He had the same nose as his niece ,Elia but every other feature she seemed to have inherited from her mother, the fire that coursed through the Martell's veins had surpassed Rhaegar's wife and been given to Elia's brother, Oberyn.  
"I recall he said it was Arthur's turn to be bet upon?"  
"Perhaps he did. No doubt it will come down to the two of you in the end." the Dornish Prince said.  
"For the sake of Ser Oswells money purse I should hope it is I that stands alone eventually." Lewyn chuckled. "Though do you not place bets on our Barristan the Bold? He has defeated me once before."  
"Surely he is an old man compared to our great Prince Rhaegar?" Rhaegar laughed. Barristan Selmy was a proven knight, ending great battles with a stroke of his sword. He had saved King Aerys from his imprisonment at Duskendale and had been cloaked before even the Lord Commander.  
"Not quite an old man but even so, he could still have you with one hand I fear Prince Lewyn." Lewyn smiled happily, nodding in agreement.  
"Which is why I shall be guarding our King whilst you play at your games my Prince."  
"Well I'm sure whoever he might name his Queen of Love and Beauty will come as no surprise." It was well known that Ser Barristan was infatuated by Arthur's sister Ashara. She was a lady in waiting to Elia and an exotic looking beauty that most men became besotted with it seemed.  
"There is word your father has placed a bet on you to be victorious." _My father? How sentimental._ It caught Rhaegar by surprise, the King paid his son no mind before let alone bet on his success in the few tourneys he entered.  
"My father? Spending his gold on his own son? Maybe the common folk are to be believed and he has finally lost his head." Prince Lewyn chuckled.  
"One might say the commonfolk are right Prince Rhaegar."  
"One might say..."  
"Well I must leave you for now my prince; we have a matter to attend to before the tourney." Ser Arthur had mentioned that Aerys meant to cloak the Lannister boy before the tourney to omit him from entering, as if taking his life and freedom were not already punishment enough.  
"Ah, is it time already? Poor boy." Rhaegar shook his silvery head sadly and watched Prince Lewyn turn his horse and ride around the camp to the King's dais on the lawn. Rhaegar continued along the path for the knights and came upon the entrance into the jousting lawn. Each knight would be called out individually, with the highest born called last, and they would line up before the King and the members of House Whent who would declare the tourney had begun. Tediously, being the Prince of Westoros meant that Rhaegar would be called last after Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Barristan, Ser Jaime Lannister and Brandon Stark. They had already begun calling out knights as he could hear the muffled announcement of a name and then the polite applause that followed from the crowd. Ser Jaime was sitting on a cushioned chair, popping grapes into his mouth in the most expensive looking armour he had ever seen. Gold and gleaming, with a lion embossed on his chest and a crimson cloak hanging from his muscled shoulders. He stood to attention when he noticed Rhaegar and bowed his golden head.  
"My Prince, good day."  
"It is a good day Ser Jaime. That is fine looking armour."  
"I'll let my father know you appreciate his taste Prince Rhaegar." Rhaegar smiled as his jest. It was a shame such fine armour would be cast aside for one of a different shade, sooner than he suspected.

Arthur sat astride his ivory horse beside Rhaegar, his cloak the same shade as his steed, he was watching Lord Gerold who stood close behind the King on the dais in front of them. His father sat in a heavy oak chair that had been draped in the Targaryen colours of onyx and crimson but the King still sat rigidly amongst the velvet cushions, as if it were the barbed Iron Throne he hated so.  
 _A king scared of his own throne._  
"Ser Jaime Lannister." Called the Lord Commanders booming voice. Rhaegar looked sideways at Ser Jaime. He looked about him confused, his green eyes darting to the stand in which is sister sat. She nodded to him, her flaxen hair gleaming, smiling an identical smile to the boys own. He dismounted slowly and walked towards the dais, his armour clinking with every step on the hard, untouched ground. Beside Rhaegar, Arthur and Ser Barristan also dismounted from amongst the knights competing, following quickly behind Jaime, bowing their heads to the King and climbing the few steps to join their white brothers. The King watched the boy with his sharp pale violet eyes, Rhaegar's mother had said that in his youth Aery's eyes had been like his own, darker, warmer but time had changed him as it did any man. The Kingsguard stood behind their King, three on either side of his throne, their shadows cast across the grass in the rising sun. Ser Jaime withdrew his sword, resting the point in the earth and knelt before King Aerys bowing his golden head to the ground.  
"You have been chosen for the highest of honours Ser Jaime." Lord Gerold's voice rang like a bell, carrying across the silence. Jaime Lannister's head rose to look at his King and then turned to look into the watchful crowd. "The Kingsguard is an honourable path to take. A White Cloak may not hold lands, sire children, marry, or have any worldly allegiance except to his monarch. Will you give your life to your sword and your King?" Ser Jaime more than before seemed a boy rather than a knight, he shrunk under the watch of Rhaegar's sire and that of the gathered lords and their houses.  
"I -" He spoke nervously, all the drawling confidence he had once exuded, extinguished. He cleared his throat before speaking once more. "I will pledge my life to protecting my King." Lord Gerold rested his great sword upon Jaime's shoulder lightly then the other as he spoke.  
"Then rise, Ser Jaime of House Lannister. In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women. In the name of your King, let your service begin and let it not end 'til death takes you from us, be it by the sword or the slow turn of time." The crowd cheered, stamped and screamed their approval as the Lord Commander revealed a concealed a white cloak in his hands. As he stood before Ser Jaime, he watched the cloak of crimson fall from him as he unclipped its ornate lion fastenings and Lord Gerold replaced it with an ivory one. It seemed odd that he was still in his golden armour, with the roaring lion of Lannister emblazoned across his chest yet wore the white he would wear for the rest of his life. As he rose Lord Gerold whispered in his hair, smiling. Ser Jaime followed Lord Gerold up the steps his white cloak billowing out behind him as the breeze caught it and Jaime stood beside his white brothers beaming. Ser Arthur put a hand on the boys shoulder giving him a fatherly smile and they stood proudly together, protectors in white, married to their swords and to the service of their King.

The night was full of laughter and merriment, the tourney was suspended to celebrate the newest member of the Kingsguard and another feast was held to honour Ser Jaime. Much like the previous night the most powerful houses sat closest to the King with House Lannister seated directly to the King's right but this night Ser Jaime did not sit there. He, for the feast had been given Lord Gerold's seat to the King's left and beamed with pride. Rhaegar watched him return the smile of his twin sister seated at their house table, she was a beauty with golden hair like his, Lord Tywin had been set on marrying them not so long ago, Rhaegar had gone to Casterly Rock where the girl was presented to him and she had given him that same smile she now gave her dear brother. Though he had disliked the idea of marrying the Lannister girl, when he saw her, with her emerald eyes and full lips he had not felt so against it. By the time his royal sire had decided against the union Rhaegar had rather come around to the idea, though he was not as disappointed as Lord Tywin. He had noticed she still blushed a rosy pink when their eyes met as she did many years ago. The House Stark table was beside the Lannister's and he noticed the girl sitting amongst her brothers, talking avidly with her dark hair pulled from her face. Her lips were a deep rose, full and pouted. _What would they feel like on his?_ Her eyes flickered to the King's long table and for a moment they lingered on his own, hers were almond shape honeys he deep grey of winter with dark lashes, she watched him for a fraction of an instant and turned her head away, blushing the same colour as Lady Cersei. He took a sip of his wine, smiling to himself. He liked that he made her blush, that her blood flowed a little warmer because of him.

They broke their fast the next day with the King as the sun rose. He was already agitated and likely had not slept but spent the night pacing, muttering to himself. The three sat in silence, the sound of cutlery on their plates and the occasional thud of a cup being placed down on the wooden table were the only sounds. Elia was dressed in an onyx velvet dress trimmed in crimson, her matching black hair shining in the dappled morning light let in through the high windows.  
"There are many great knights competing today are there not my love?" Asked Elia apprehensively, she did not tend to speak in front of Aerys, like he did most, he made her uneasy.  
"Yes, Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur I have jousted with before, I know their swords well. But Ser Jaime, Ser Brandon and Lord Royce are unknown to me."  
"I am sure you sh-.." She had begun to speak when his father gave a low rasping laugh. "...Your grace?" She asked politely.  
"Ser Jaime has gone." _So Arthur was right_. Ser Jaime was probably halfway to King's Landing by now.  
"Gone, father?" Rhaegar asked, a look of forged bewilderment on his face.  
"He has a duty at King's Landing, your mother and brother require protection." Aerys smiled to himself, he seemed pleased he had rid Lord Tywin of his heir and any honour from his son winning this grand tourney in one fell swoop. Rhaegar was sure his father imagined the look on Lord Tywin's face when his son came to him, dressed in white, belonging to his King.  
"Could it not have waited your grace? He is surely disappointed he cannot compete." Elia said, rather more boldly than usually, her Dornish tones filling the silent room. The King looked at her with a smile that did not reach his cold pale eyes.  
"He took an oath Princess. He is mine." His voice had taken a sinister manner and Elia seemed to shrink back in her chair away from him.  
"It is no matter, there are other knights Elia." Said Rhaegar lightly, sipping his wine. Lord Tywin would be furious to see his heir taken from him and Rhaegar was more wary than the wroth of Tywin Lannister than that of his own father.  
"This laughing knight..." Rhaegar looked over his cup at his father. Aerys seemed lost in thought and spoke as if to no-one. "Who is he?"  
"Well he would be an awful mystery knight if anyone knew who he was, father." Elia smiled at his jest across the table but when the King raised his sharp gaze to Rhaegar's she let her smile falter.  
"He makes a mockery of you Rhaegar." Rhaegar began to cut his bacon slowly. His father assumed every man meant to harm him, mock him and even murder him given half the chance, it had grown a tiresome tale to hear. "And he mocks me, by gallivanting around a tournament held in my own honour." The table lulled into silence again and Rhaegar continued to slowly cut his food, his cutlery scraping across the plate noisily. "Will you let this common peasant insult you? Your own King? We are blood of the dragon." He said shrilly, his voice beginning to raise. Rhaegar set down his knife and fork to stare at his father. Aerys had slapped his yellow talons on the table in anger and his pale eyes were wide and wild.  
"I will enquire as to his identity your grace."  
"Not good enough." He spat through gritted teeth, the thin veins under his wrinkled skin protruded from his forehead. He was prone to moments, flashes of fury, which subsided as quickly as they came. His mood was much like the waves of the sea, before one emotion had settled on the shore another wave had come and washed it away. Ser Barristan had said that Rhaegar's grandfather Jaehaerys had told him " _Every time a new Targaryen was born, the gods would toss the coin in the air and the world would hold its breath to see how it would land."_ It seemed to Rhaegar to not have landed as favourably for Aerys as it had for him. He wondered whether it would be his brother that grew into a mad tyrant or his daughter that was ruled by her ever changing emotions or neither or both. Through years of marrying their own siblings the House Targaryen had been wrought with madness and weakness, he looked across the table at Elia and was glad that their own child had a greater chance of avoiding that fate. "Find him Rhaegar. Unmask this man!" His voice was raised now and his piercing tone echoed around the large round room they sat in. Rhaegar clenched his jaw, feeling the muscles in his neck tighten. He pushed his plate away, Elia raised a quizzical eyebrow at him across the table and his chair scraped across the floor as he stood. He looked at his King and bowed slightly.  
"As your grace commands." He said stiffly. He walked to his wife, kissing her cheek lightly before striding from the room. Ser Jonothor stood outside the door and watched silently as Rhaegar grabbed his sword belt that was hung on the wall and he flung it around his hips, strapping it to him. He never felt more a boy than when his father ordered him to do his bidding, he was a man grown and a Prince but when your father was the King there was no denying him. _A terrible father and a worse King, hes a fool to anger Lord Tywin_. Though Aerys liked to think it was his doing it was Lord Tywin's mind and gold that had given the realm such a long period of peace. He strode down the steps and through the bustling courtyard to the great gates of Harrenhal; he passed under the thick walls and out into the camp where most houses rested. The highborn ladies had been given chambers within the castle but Rhaegar knew Lyanna Stark did not reside there and instead stayed close to her brothers, he wondered if he would catch a glimpse of her, rising early or perhaps she was already dressing or breaking her fast and he would peek through the fluttering tent hangings. He strode through the camp, brushing the thought aside swiftly. He must concentrate on the task at hand, there were four knights to defeat to become the tourney champion. Lord Yohn Royce or Bronze Yohn, the Lord of Runestone was a formidable knight with gleaming bronze armour inscribed with ancient runes. The two white cloaks that competed; Arthur and Barristan were well known to Rhaegar. Ser Barristan himself had taught Rhaegar how to wield a sword though it made him less sure that he could defeat him. Like Lord Royce, Brandon Stark was unknown to him too, though the heir of Winterfell had an excellent reputation as a jouster. He was the youngest competitor left, though Stark might think it his advantage Rhaegar knew against seasoned champions like Ser Barristan he would stand no chance. Rhaegar had made the mistake in thinking youth was his ally during his first tourney, though he rarely entered into lists deciding to hone his skills becoming a great warrior, so they were at his disposal should he ever need them. He opened the tent where he was to dress before entering the jousting field and his squire Myles Mooton sat at a table eating his morning meal absent minded. He looked up as Rhaegar entered and stood quickly, bowing, wiping his hands on his tunic.  
"Prince Rhaegar, I'm sorry. You are earlier than I expected I-" He spoke quickly, apologising. Rhaegar held up a hand to stop him and with the other brushed his silvery hair from his eyes.  
"No, it is my mistake Myles. Continue your meal, I will sit until you are done." Myles lowered himself back into his seat unsurely as Rhaegar took the one opposite him. "Eat then Myles." He slowly began eating as Rhaegar poured himself a cup of wine. He had grown very fond of Myles, they had spent many years together now and it was time, Rhaegar decided to let him go. _When I return to King's Landing I shall knight him, make him a man in his own right_.  
"Are you looking forward to the joust Myles?" Rhaegar asked conversationally.  
"Yes, Prince Rhaegar. I'm most looking forward to seeing you be crowned champion." He smiled as he spoke through a mouthful of egg.  
"Ah such confidence Myles, I like that in a squire." Rhaegar returned the smile. Myles was much younger when Rhaegar had first taken him for a squire and had been rather taken aback with the manner that the Prince had spoken to him, like they were old friends. His previous squire Ser Richard Lonmouth, who he had knighted himself had become a great friend, it was difficult to not become close with one who spent so much time in your presence. Rhaegar had learnt to love those around him, to trust them, unlike his suspicious father and they gave him their love and trust in return.  
"I hear Ser Jaime has departed for King's Landing, my prince?"  
"Word does travel swiftly. He has. He is no longer just a knight now and he has a duty to his King." Said Rhaegar solemnly, Myles nodded and pushed away his plate rising from his seat again.  
"I polished your armour Prince Rhaegar. Twice, actually." He gestured to the armour that hung on a metal figure in the corner of the room. The black plated armour gleamed in the morning light and Rhaegar could see the room reflected in the metal. The three-headed dragon encrusted in rubies glittered on the breast plate.  
"Very good Myles. Shall we dress? It seems as though the jousting hour in near." Myles hurried forward and began to help Rhaegar into the heavy armour. He had not worn it in a while and the weight seemed unnatural to him, though he knew he would adjust to it soon enough. When he was done and only the helm was left to be worn, Myles stood back admiring his own work.  
"Very handsome your grace." Rhaegar chuckled appreciatively.  
"I should hope so, I'm sure it was very expensive." It had been his name-day gift from his father many years ago now, a young Rhaegar had been stunned by the extravagance and beauty of it. He was sure his father had hoped that it would inspire him to entire more tourneys but it only glimmered in his bedchamber for another year before he wore it. Myles left the tent to fetch Rhaegar's black stallion from the stables, the horse had not been the one originally planned for him and this one was a mischievous, who stole apples from outside the kitchens. The cooks had requested for it to be gotten rid of but Rhaegar had appealed to their nature and taken it in himself, insisting he could be trained ,naming it Raider. The horse stood outside the tent now and had been dressed in onyx coloured head plate that matched Rhaegar's own armour and he reached out a hand to stroke his soft nose. When he had saved the pony from his doom Rhaegar had though he would not grow much more but to his surprise and that of the stable boys Raider had grown into an impressive destrier, the perfect mount for jousting and tournaments. He mounted him now and the horse snorted as Myles handed him his broad oak shield before beginning to trot through the camp towards the jousting field. "Prince Rhaegar! My Prince!" A voice behind him called. He turned and saw Myles running toward him, dashing through the people milling around holding Rhaegar's own helm high in the air. The dragon that was forged on the helm eyed him menacingly as Myles passed it to him breathlessly. Rhaegar pushed back his hair from his face before placing it over his head and readjusting his shield in his hand. The four other competitors were already mounted, wearing their helms and waiting patiently for the event to begin. Lord Royce sat in his ancient bronze armour on a horse on the shame shade, he was an imposing man, broad and strong and the owner of a pair of particularly impressive bushy grey eyebrows. Arthur was beside him, in his suit of white enamelled scales carrying his white shield and his great longsword Dawn across his back, though he considered Arthur a dear friend, in all his armoured glory he exuded such power it was of no doubt that he had been chosen for the Kingsguard and why he was by far the most admired of all the knights amongst them. Beside him sat Barristan the Bold, in matching Kingsguard armour and sat almost lazily in his saddle, with all the confidence of a seasoned champion, who had defeated all but one of these opponents before.  
"No nerves then Ser Barristan?" Asked Rhaegar, his own voice ringing in his helm.  
"None, my prince. Though if you would like me to feign them, I'd be more than willing." He heard the smile though he could not see it and he laughed. He knew that if it came to drawn swords there was no way Rhaegar could surprise him, all the tricks and skill he ever knew was because of Barristan Selmy.  
"Such confidence for one about to be defeated Barristan." Called Arthur in jest.  
"How many dragons have our brothers bet against us this time Arthur?"  
"Possibly a hundred between them." He said. Arthur reached over and patted Rhaegar's shoulder, the sound of steel on steel caused his horse to jolt slightly. "But we both know it's our fine Prince who shall be victorious, he has been trained well." His deep purple eyes could be seen through his helm. It seemed a trait of old Valyrian blood, House Dayne like House Targaryen some members possessed purple eyes and silver-gold hair.  
"Only by the best Arthur." The knight on the outskirts of the group had turned his head to listen to them and Rhaegar recognised the direwolf on his chest. His armour was not as brazen as the others, it was pale steel and the direwolf was engraved upon it, his helm was simple with no forgings or ornaments. His armour was simple but clearly well made, great craftsmanship could be seen in the metal. It suited him, it suited a man of the North. Brandon Stark had never entered a tourney before and he seemed rather nervous to be against such accomplished knights, though it had been said he was extremely skilled at both lance and sword. A bell rang which meant the tourney was to begin and the King had taken his place.  
"Lord Yohn Royce, Lord of Runestone." A loud applause followed as Bronze Yohn trotted out onto the field and it died away as the crowd waited to hear his opponent. "And Prince of Dragonstone, Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen." The applause was considerably louder and as he cantered out on the field the sound was almost deafening. "An announcement before the day's event begins." Called the herald in his plush purple velvet. "Ser Jaime Lannister has been called to duty and therefore removed from the listing." The crowd muttered amongst themselves suspiciously and Rhaegar looked to see Lady Cersei's reaction in the raised seats, he scanned the houses sat there but no crimson and gold could be seen, not one crimson cloaked member of House Lannister was seated amongst them. _Maybe she had returned with him?_ Lord Royce began to trot towards his end of the field and Rhaegar did the same, whilst the crowd still muttered darkly about Ser Jaime's departure. Myles Mooton waited, holding a lance out for Rhaegar as he reached him.  
"Good luck your grace." He said happily. Rhaegar nodded, balancing the lance in his hand he turned and look at Lord Royce. _Where was his weak spot? Where was his armour weakest? At the joints._ All had to be considered, Rhaegar decided Royce's weakness was his weight, he was too heavy for his horse meaning that he could be unseated easily if he did not concentrate. He would aim for his shoulder to push his off balance but where would the Runestone Lord attempt to injure Rhaegar? The head was the most obvious choice, his helm was a large target, and he would have to make sure to make full use of his shield to remain unharmed. A trumpet sounded now and the crowd seemed to hold its breath. Rhaegar kicked into Raider and the horse jolted forward galloping across the ground with tremendous speed, he adjusted the lance so it sat under right arm with his shield in his left. Soon they were merely feet away from each other and the crowd screamed, stamping their feet. It looked as though he was right and Royce intended to aim for his head, not paying much attention to his own shield. He was too focused on scoring points than protecting himself. Rhaegar positioned his lance so it would land at the joint of Lord Yohn's armour. They collided and Rhaegar raised his shield to block the Lord's lance which splintered against his heavy shield as his own lance caught the Lord in the joint of his gorget and he swayed on his horse. They galloped past each other and reformed at the end of the barrier, their squires waiting with new lances in hand. The trumpet sounded again and they thundered towards each other the earth shaking beneath them. Lord Yohn seemed to be attempting to imitate Rhaegar's previous move, seeming to aim for his shoulder. As the crossed paths Rhaegar's lance splintered as it caught him in the same place again but this time he forgot his shield and felt a sharp pain as Lord Royce's lance caught him in the middle of his breast plate. Rhaegar watched the great lord wobble in his saddle as he grabbed at his neck and slowly, slowly slide from it, crashing to the earth. The high and low born folk alike yelled their approval.  
"The victor is Prince Rhaegar." He could see Elia standing and clapping proudly on the dais beside the four remaining members of the Kingsguard. The King however remained seated and only looked on shrewdly. The Lord of Runestone was helped up by his squire, removing his helm. He bowed humbly to Rhaegar before departing the field, the bronze armour flashing in the sunlight.  
"Well that went well." Myles said to himself, with a satisfied look across his face. The herald blew his trumpet loudly and cleared his throat rather dramatically.  
"The next joust shall be Prince Rhaegar Targaryen against Brandon Stark." Rhaegar heard a great whooping from in the stands and Lady Lyanna and her brothers stood cheering loudly as their brother cantered onto the field. His shield looked heavier than even Rhaegar's and the direwolf snarled at him from his arm as he jostled it into position. He had wondered about this boy from the North, well a man now, he had not entered into lists but it seemed he was built for war. Tall, strong and young though Rhaegar already knew this Stark's weakness, his temper, his over-confidence. He was too eager to win, Rhaegar could sense it, the heir to Winterfell craved glory and he didn't doubt he would find it. _But not on this day_. Stark's squire handed him his lance as Myles did the same to Rhaegar and wheeled about their horses to face one another. After seeing Lord Yohn unseated Brandon may be quick to do the same to Rhaegar but he did not know this wolf's skill and so decided he would focus on his own defence, his own shield to better judge this knight. The trumpet sounded and Rhaegar kicked his heels into his horse and Raider thundered forward as Rhaegar held his shield tightly against him, raising it to cover him better and aiming his lance to Brandon Stark's elbow. As he predicted Stark was eager to unseat him, win points and conquer, his lance splintered against the centre of Rhaegar's shield as the prince's own lance caught his just above the elbow. They galloped past each other coming to a halt at the opposite end of the barrier and wheeled their horses around to face one another again, taking the lances their squires handed to them. The horn sounded again and Rhaegar decided to aim a little more boldly this time, for the helm on Brandon's head rather than his torso, as they came together he raised his shield to deflect Brandon's lance and his own splintered against Stark's helm which caused him to clutch tightly to his reins to remain seated. When Rhaegar looked back across at Brandon, his final lance in his hand he seemed more unsteady in his saddle now, slightly concussed from the blow he would be easier to unseat. The trumpet sounded again and Rhaegar dug his heels into Raider's flanks spurring him forward, he would aim straight for the joint, between his breastplate and guardplate where the armour was weakest. He pointed his lance toward it and raised his shield to guard himself.  
The crowd gasped as Ser Brandon fell from his horse, landing on the earth with a sickening thud. He moaned in his helm and grabbed his shoulder. The armour was split at the joint and the end of Rhaegar's lance was lodged in the skin and muscle. In the stand a young woman in lavender stood, a look of horror on her beautiful face. She ducked underneath the wooden bar in front of her and jumped the height to the ground, grabbing the hem of her dress as she landed and sprinting forward to Ser Brandon.  
"Lyanna!" Eddard called from the seats. Lady Lyanna Stark knelt in the mud beside her brother, her hair blowing about her face. She placed her hand under his neck, lifting the helm from his heavy head and cast it aside, where it glimmered in the dirt. Rhaegar galloped back to where they had collided and jumped from the saddle, removing his own helm. Lady Lyanna had pulled the arm plate of his armour off and revealed the chainmail and leather jerkin beneath. With every ragged breath the boy took blood pumped from the wound and the girls hands were already covered in the crimson liquid. The metal point of Rhaegar's lance was embedded deep in his shoulder and probably was poking through the skin of his back. Lyanna touched it gently and unclear as to what to do, as her finger brushed the metal Ser Brandon yelled.  
"Leave it to the healers my lady." Rhaegar said kindly. She looked up at him slowly, he could tell she was livid with him for hurting her brother, the little line between her brows gave that much away, the ice in her glare even more. The Whent's maester and other healers came hurrying up the jousting field, carrying a stretcher, sinking slightly in the earth the horses had turned. They bustled about Ser Brandon and made him sip milk of the poppy which soon had his eyes fluttering in sleep. As soon as his eyes closed they began to place the stretcher underneath him and struggled with the weight of the armour the boy had worn, between the six of them they staggered back down the field, jostling the knight's weight between them. The girl still sat in the mud and watched them go, her hands bloody. "My lady?" Said Rhaegar, removing his glove and holding out a hand to help her up. She looked back at him and stared at his hand for a moment before taking it and rising to her feet. Her dress was ruined, blood stained and filthy. "I'm sorry about your dress my lady." Her hand was still in his, it was warm and slick with her brother's blood. She swept her gaze over him and the rubies of his chest plate reflected in her eyes.  
"There are other dresses, Prince Rhaegar." She inclined her head politely and he led her back to where she had jumped from her seat. A young boy carrying a set of wooden steps skidded to a halt in front of them and laid the steps between the stand and the ground. She took the first step and their hands fell apart. He watched her walk up the steps back to her brothers, his hand hanging limply at his side as he pulled the glove back on, feeling empty in more ways than one. A horn blew from the dais that seated the King and their hosts.  
"The victor is Prince Rhaegar!" Cried the herald. The crowd began to cheer and there was a momentary respite as the field was reset and the splinters of their lances cleared away. Rhaegar returned to his horse, which snorted impatiently, he patted its neck as he mounted and trotted back to where he rode in.  
"Ser Arthur Dayne." Called the herald. As he watched Arthur ride in to a tumultuous applause, his white cloak and glittering armour he knew that he would not be unseated. This would end with swords. After three unsuccessful jousts with each other's lance glancing off their shields with a painful screech, they dismounted and stood apart from one another warily. Arthur drew his great Dawn from his back and held it forward. It's blade was as pale as milkglass and shone even in the sunlight, it was said to be forged from the heart of a fallen star. But a sword was only as good as the knight who wielded it and this knight was formidable. Rhaegar drew his own longsword with a hilt as ornate as his armour with a dark steel blade and dragons with rubies for eyes, he had wished that the House Targaryen still possessed their own greatsword, a Valyrian blade that was doused with history. The two swords they had owned had been lost long ago, Darksister had been lost during the reign of Aerys I and Blackfyre was said to be in the possession of the sellsword army named the Golden Company. _I am past wishing now._ He raised his sword up and Arthur did the same, their blades a foot apart. He pulled his arm back and put all his weight into the blow and the steel sung like a bard at a feast. Arthur raised Dawn to meet the strike and half a dozen more. Where Arthur had more width, broader shoulders, Rhaegar had height and a longer reach. Dawn was heavier than his own longsword and Rhaegar would let Arthur tire himself, when his arm was weary he could use his longer arm to his advantage. _He will not tire so easily._ Their swords clanged together again to the crowds delight and Rhaegar had to use all his strength to push his sword away, though he must win this battle if he were to defeat Ser Barristan he would need not tire himself out. Rhaegar wheeled about brandishing the blade and it clanged against Ser Arthur's armour deafeningly. The shining plate was dented when he drew his sword away and Rhaegar was sure a purple bruise would bloom on the skin beneath. Dawn rained down on him like an unwelcome storm, the sound like hail in his helm and he could feel his own bruises blossoming after every hit, he knew that he would likely grow weary before Arthur and so used his force to batter down upon him, their steel ringing and the crowd screaming. Arthur's sword swung and he had to curve backward to avoid the blow, he regained quickly and his longsword caught Dawn's hilt causing it to fall from his gloved hand. As he bent to regain it Rhaegar placed his sword in the gap between his helm and gorget where a pale sliver of skin was exposed and with a smile saw a tiny bead of blood trickle from his sword point down Arthur's neck.  
Much like Arthur, the lancing between Ser Barristan and Rhaegar came to naught, both too good with a lance, both quick with a shield. It came to swords again and Rhaegar felt more uneasy than he had done before, his arm already felt sore and weary at the shoulder , he felt a deep ache in his muscles but he unsheathed his sword with a soft ring as Barristan the Bold did the same. Rhaegar removed his great helm and flung it aside, he would need his full vision to fight this seasoned knight and the greathelm greatly limited a man's sight to a narrow slit. It crashed as it hit the ground and rolled away, the rubies glinting in the sunlight that beat down on them as they began to circle slowly. Selmy had the stronger arm and he knew Rhaegar was weakened from Arthur; he would sweep in a defeat him. Barristan raised his sword and the first blow almost broke Rhaegar's arm, he felt his bone shudder in its socket as he blocked the sword from his face. Though his vision was greatly helped by the removal of the helm it made him more vulnerable to attacks, though this was only to first blood and he doubted Ser Barristan would make him a head shorter just to win a tournament. The knight's blows came like hammers thrown from a giant, they were wielded with such force Rhaegar had almost forgotten how good of a knight Selmy was. He caught Rhaegar's already sore shoulder with a deafening clang and he thought he heard a faint _crack_. _Let that be metal rather than bone_ , he prayed silently. But when he raised his arm high to block Selmy again he was sure it was bone. The pain spread from his shoulder to his fingertips and he clenched his jaw tightly to keep from screeching. The sound that Barristan's sword made on Rhaegar's fine armour soon became the only sound he heard and when he fell back with a thud on the ground the crowd gave a dramatic wince. _It is lost, it must be over_. Ser Barristan started toward him and he adjusted his grip on his hilt as he walked. _There is fight in me yet_. He lay still on the ground, his hand resting loosely on his sword and as Barristan was inches from him he rose up, in a great burst of force his sword swung at caught the knight unawares in the joint between his breast plate and hip. It was Barristan this time that lost his footing suddenly and fell backwards, his blue eyes wide in his helm. He begun to rise but Rhaegar had his boot on Barristan's wrist and his long sword resting in the narrow gap in his helm between his eyes. Rhaegar smiled.  
"Yield?" he said, raising an eyebrow. Barristan seemed to think not and Rhaegar felt the hand under his foot squirm to regain his sword. He pressed his foot harder and the wrist went limp. The knight gritted his teeth and the blood the sword drew from his forehead trickled down his cheek like a single crimson tear. Tired but victorious, Rhaegar lent back on his hip and sheathed his sword. Ser Barristan was struggling up from the ground and removed his helm with a flourish. His hair had stuck to his sweating forehead and he held his side with a grimace.  
"Prince Rhaegar!" He cried and the crowd took up the chant. Rhaegar stood before the dais his father sat on and whilst the cheers poured in around him and the people cried his name his father's eyes narrowed. _He doesn't want them to love me, he fears it_. He bowed deeply to his father who continued his stare, and turned sharply to Myles who held Raider by the reins.  
"Well done your grace." He said happily, Rhaegar smiled, he was still breathless and his arm was so sore he would surely need poppy wine just to sleep. He mounted Raider and reared him, clinging to it as it kicked up, raising his fist in the air, triumphant. A young boy came towards him in Whent colours holding a crown of blue roses handing it to him with a bow. The Crown of Love and Beauty, Rhaegar had hardly thought that he must name a new Queen for it. He dug his heels into the horse and trotted towards the dais that the highborn Lords and Ladys sat upon. He rode down the line past the space Lady Cersei should have occupied, past the Whent's and Daynes and Martells. He came back to where to his father and wife. Elia smiled proudly as he approached her and edged forward in her seat ready to stand for her prince He looked along the line beyond his wife and another face drew his eye. Her hair was dark as ash and her eyes golden. She sat between her two solemn brothers, a rose between two prickly thorns. She watched him like everybody else but he felt a pull towards her. Before he had given it any further thought his horse trotted past the dais. He didn't know why he did. _No don't do this_. He saw only Lady Lyanna now, her wild, her brother's blood mingled with mud around her knees. He should turn back to the arms of his wife. The horse trotted on and he stopped in front of the Starks. He held out the crown to Lyanna and the chanting of the crowd slowly died away. She looked at him terrified and shook her head slightly, but he only nodded back and dropped the crown into her lap. The silence began to close in around them. Her breath was shallow, she was so close he could hear it now, he could watch the tops of her pale breasts rise and fall. He could reach out and touch them, touch her, brush her hair that fluttered in the wind and hold her close to him in the night. She brushed her fingers over the roses and tentatively took it in her hands, holding the crown limply for a moment before placing it on her own head, he smiled, and it suited her more than it would ever suit another. _It is where it belongs_.  
"My Queen of Love and Beauty."


	7. Lyanna

 

She returned from Brandon's tent where she and her brothers had dined, her brother still winced with every movement and as she had left the maester had come to give him dreamwine to ease his sleep. She changed into her night clothes, casting aside the day's satin corset with vigour; she spied a roll of parchment resting on the smooth surface of the desk. She whirled around the room, the hairs on her neck prickling as if she felt the presencknife whoever had delivered it. The seal was a swirl of crimson and black. Her dark hair fell in waves to her waist and she pushed it behind her ear out of her golden eyes as she sat down at the desk studying the dragon seal on the letter. _This does not feel right._ She had been given many sharp glances since the tourney and even her brothers had stared at the flowery crown on her head with unease. She broke the seal with shaking hands, _I haven't done anything_ , she thought. _Then why do I feel so guilty?_ Rhaegar was a married man and she betrothed. _Lady Lyanna, the hour of the wolf, the hall._ At once she thought she would not go. It was late and what would a man want of a maiden so late into the night? But she remembered the way he had sang, the way his hand had felt around her own. She read it once more and placed it back on the desk, as she did her hand brushed a rose. It had been wreathed with dozens of others to make the Crown of Love and Beauty, _a stupid name_ she thought. The petals had begun to wilt slightly at the outer edges, turning a navy blue, dark as the night sky and she ran her fingers over it gently. Prince Rhaegar had galloped past his wife to present it to in front of the whole court. She thought it some jest, until Brandon was injured in the joust; she had not spoken to him. After the night he sang she thought of him, in the dark, She had thought of his dark violet eyes and silvery hair, of running her hands through it, she had reached down under her night clothes and imagined they were his strong hands rather than her own. Lyanna turned the wreath over in her hands. She looked back down at the parchment and decided she would go to Prince Rhaegar, if only out of curiosity. _And lust_. The excitement, the danger of it made her breathless and her heart was thudding in her throat. The night was damp and she did not want to change out of her cool bed clothes, she went to the looking glass and pinned back the loose tendrils that fell into her face. As she stared at her reflection she thought of Prince Rhaegar's silvery blonde hair falling effortlessly past his armoured shoulders, his gleaming purple eyes and smooth lightly golden skin as he held out the azure crown to her in a slender hand, smiling as he looked upon her. He was every maiden's fantasy. _His wife's fantasy_. She rummaged through her possessions and found an ornately hilted dagger and tucked it in a pocket sown into her dress. It was almost the wolfs hour as she began to make her way to the Great Hall, the Hall of the Hundred Hearth where the lords of old had sat and perished in the ruins. A monstrous castle with five humongous towers pushing their way out of ragged earth toward the endless sky, the greatest fortress in the realm had been almost destroyed by the dragons commanded by the House Targaryen centuries ago. The castle was dark and sleepy as Lyanna made her way into the court yard; it was strange to see it so empty when in the day it was the busiest place within the keep. Lyanna kept to the shadows catlike as she spied the watchers on the walls, pacing but paying little attention. She was suspicious still, on her guard but she saw no reason for him to lure her into a trap, they barely knew one another. She reached the main doors of the Great Hall, locked by night but she saw they stood slightly ajar this evening, not by coincidence. She looked around the courtyard, with the moonlight casting a blue hue over the flagstones but no-one was there. She pushed the heavy wooden door and entered down the stone corridor. There in the hall sitting in the Lord Whent's chair sat Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, silvery gold hair falling in waves and dark violet eyes glowed in the moonlight pouring in through great high windows. He sat with elbows resting on his knees and fingers steepled below his chin. He stood as she entered and smiled a brilliant white smile that made Lyanna feel an unwelcome hot flush creep up her neck. He wore a black leather jerkin with the Targaryen emblem of a three headed dragon embossed in gold upon it. "My lady, you have come." Her heart pounded still, the sound thunderous in her ears and she felt almost out of control, her mind spiralling through the clouds.  
"I thought it would be impolite to ignore the prince." She said meekly and he laughed a soft ringing sound. She looked about the huge empty hall. "We are alone." Lyanna looked down; her hair fell out of the loose pins and into her face and she pushed it behind her ears. "Your wife should be Queen of Love and Beauty..." she blurted out, the words falling from her mouth before she considered them. He stepped slowly down the dais and she felt her heart beat wildly in her chest.  
"If I wanted to crown my wife I would have done so my lady." His voice was iron and silk, soft because he made it so, she imagined should he be wroth his voice would not be so sweet.  
"So why didn't you your grace?" _He was just a man_ , she told herself, _a very handsome high born one, but still a man_. He reached the bottom step of the dais and they almost had to shout to one another given the great size of the hall.  
"I do not love my wife, most men don't." She was a little taken back by the confession, _surely that was a thing most men never said aloud?_ "My father arranged it and I did not meet her until the day we were to be wed. Even princes have no freedom from their fathers." _Ladies don't either._ She thought of her brothers and her sitting in the godswood in silence, the words their father had left them with. _You must do your duty to your house._ "I am sorry if I have angered your betrothed, I know my cousin has a dreadful temper." She had barely seen Robert since, he had taken part in the melee though she did not attend it, and she supposed she should have but the thought was gone as soon as it came. "Do you wish to marry Lord Robert?" he asked.  
"I must do my duty to my house." She felt like some bird, trained to sing the words others put in her mouth. _How well I am doing_ , _father would be so proud.  
_ "It is your life, is it not my lady?" He was asking so many questions that he did not need the answers to, he had dragged her out in the middle of the night to probe her and she felt a different kind of flush rising now as he stepped quickly towards her and was soon close enough so she could study him closely.  
"The same could be said for you" She said, an edge of irritation to her voice. "I do not think it is truly your place to know your grace." He chuckled darkly which only fanned the flames of her annoyance. His face was striking, a face for sculptors, for songs, for _kings_. The realm loved him, he was beautiful, skilled in battle and had the gentle humour his mad father did not yet there was a melancholy to him, a sadness she did not know.  
"Singers sing, as do I, of maidens who could steal your heart with a single glance. I fear you have taken mine from me, my lady. My wife, a gentle woman, a dear companion but she is no love of mine. I feared in all my hopeless, sleepless hours that I would never feel the great blaze that singers speak of, that it was only a fools dream," He was inches from her. _Too close_ , she thought. His hand reached out and traced her cheekbone gently, they were warm, warmer than she had expected and he left a trail where he touched that seemed to smoulder across her face. "Let us dream." She took a wary step away from him though every inch of her wanted nothing more than to let his hands burn trails across her whole body, until her very heart was on fire and she thought of nothing more than him. He stepped toward her, took her face in hers and kissed her fiercely, pulling her towards him so their bodies were pressed tightly together. She felt him stiffen under his breeches as his tongue entered her mouth and his hand meandered over her to press into her waist. She was breathless, she didn't think of her brothers or father or Robert. She forgot entirely who she was and was lost. His lips were warm. _Blood of the dragon_ , she thought.

Huge wooden tables laden with pies of pork and chicken with sweet sauces and all the fruits of Highgarden and all the spices of Dorne stood beneath the Hundred Hearth Hall. _Made by giants not men_ , Lyanna thought. She walked down the central aisle of the hall and the men and women watched as they entered. She had been scrubbed and almost scalded by the servants at Harrenhal and they dressed her and brushed her hair for what seemed an eternity. It one of the first dresses that had been made after her flowering and was made for a woman with a deep neck and an excruciatingly tight bodice. Her raven hair had been brushed until it fell in loose ringlets to her waist, draped around her shoulders and placed on her head was the Crown of Love and Beauty, she had protested profusely to wearing but Brandon had insisted, he had said it would be a slight to the prince if she did not but Lyanna knew that people would whisper even more if she did not. She had heard their whispers, though they may as well have screamed it at her. " _W_ _hy should a wild girl like her deserve the attention of such a fair man? A wild girl that drew the eye of a married man. Wild, willful, whore."_ Her sleeves fell almost to the floor as they were tucked between Brandon's good arm and Ned's; they nodded at knights they recognised along the tedious walk to the dais where the King and the Crown Prince would sit when they arrived. Lord Baratheon was already sat with his knights around him and watched Lyanna eagerly from the table below the King's. The table usually occupied by the Lannister's was now abandoned, Ser Jaime having been sent to King's Landing and Lady Cersei had disappeared with her party, some said she rode back to the Rock. Robert banged his goblet on the table and outstretched his arms. "Brandon! Ned! Ben!" He boomed across the room, his voice bounced from the walls and the Stark and Baratheon men alike cheered at each name of her brothers. "And the fairest of them all of course. My lady." He rose and bowed deeply knocking the heavy goblet from the table and onto an unsuspecting squire standing beneath. The men roared with laughter as the boy spluttered and wiped the red liquid from his eyes as he shook his blonde head. "My boy I am sorry, forgive me, go and get cleaned. You smell like a drunk." The boy nodded and scowled at him as he ran from the hall, men jeering at his heels as he fled. Cersei was an icy, unyielding wall looking on the Starks with contempt etched across her lovely face.  
"So he smells like you, you mean." Ned reached Robert and sat beside him as Robert chortled.  
"Ned that was almost humorous, are you ill? Shall I send for the maester? Surely a fever." Her brother smiled and patted his back as he laughed. Brandon sat beside Lyanna and Ben sat on the outside of the line. The Stark siblings sat and talked together in high spirits as servants moved amongst them serving wines and ales. A trumpet blasted a short tune from the arched doorway they'd walked from and a voice bellowed as to fill the hall.  
"The Crown Prince, Prince of Dragonstone Rhaegar Targaryen and his wife Princess Elia Martell of Dorne" The crowd before them scraped heavy wooden benches across the stone floor to rise then bow their heads for their prince. His jet black doublet bore the fiery red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen but it was not his velvet clothes, costly leather boots or the bright dragon hilted sword that swung from his belt that caused every maiden, woman and crone in the hall to stare breathlessly. His face, his very presence captured a thousand people in that very instant. Lyanna caught her breath, remembering how he had stared at her with deep indigo eyes before he kissed her. She remembered the path of flames his touch had left across her cheek, of the way he pushed her closer to him with strong hands. That sweet kiss, her first, set ablaze a passion so deep within her she hoped could never be quenched. As she watched him move swiftly down the aisle, cloak billowing out behind him in a crimson wave, she pressed her fingers gently to her lips recalling his touch, she pressed her legs tightly together beneath her gown, willing that no-one saw the flush she felt creeping up her bare neck. His eyes flickered for a moment to her, with her fingers tracing her lips softly and gave the vaguest hint of a smile as he walked the last twenty benches. He reached up his own slender hand and touched his own mouth for an instant. His wife walked beside him, his arm in hers and she wore a dress that matched his doublet. She was a different kind of beauty, with sun touched skin and thick eyebrows. They were a pair, a couple married in the eyes of the gods; she felt guilt crawl upon her as she looked at the princess's soft face. Lyanna's brothers bowed as Rhaegar reached them and Lyanna saw Brandon wince slightly as he did.  
"A beautiful crown my lady." Said Prince Rhaegar as he passed them. Princess Elia looked at Lyanna with a haughty expression as if she had tasted something unpleasant. As they passed them to take their seats Lyanna saw Ned and Brandon exchange a wary look . The trumpet sounded shrilly.  
"His Grace, King Aerys Targaryen Second of His Name, Seventeenth of the House Targaryen. Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms." The King was a tall, slender man with a long silvery beard that rested at his waist. His face was pointed and unlike his fair son it was cruel rather than appealing. His silvery blonde hair was as long as his beard and fanned out behind him as he walked amongst the kneeling host. A bright gold crown was nestled amongst silver, gleaming in the hearth light. Three dragons carved from rubies sat on the gold, breathing fire, roaring from the gem. He took his seat next to his son and demanded the feast be served at once and the men roared with delight.

When the feast was done men mingled amongst each other talking fervently and wenches sat upon knights laps happily. Robert had moved to her side and had her hand in his gently stroking it between his large fingers. Brandon had sent Benjen to his chamber, deeming him drunk enough for a boy. Ben's eyes lit up with rage but Brandon eyed the King warily and Ben understood and skulked out of the hall. Not before, Lyanna noted, he had grabbed a particularly pretty serving wench and her flagon, dragging her with him as she giggled. He talked with Brandon across from her joking about some girl from Barrowton who had loved him and begged to be taken back to Winterfell.  
"In my own defence, she was a very pretty girl."  
"Well out of the amount you get through Bran, some of them must be." Robert choked on his wine and Brandon let out his booming laugh. Robert pushed a strand of hair out of her face and she smiled at him softly. She looked over her shoulder as the Lord Commander Gerold smiled at them both.  
"Young love, Is there anything so sweet my prince?" He said, looking to Rhaegar, his dark eyes twinkling happily.  
"None like it Lord Gerold. I remember it well." Lyanna imagined Rhaegar's wife, lying next to him naked, taking him in her, speaking sweet words in his ears. She felt sick. She looked quickly over her shoulder at him and he was studying her with those dark eyes, his gaze fixed on Robert's hand in hers and he looked down darkly as his wine, brewing a storm within the cup moodily. The princess watched him closely and quickly excused herself, brushing her lips on the Prince's and bidding them farewell. She was sweet, with a kind face but frail. It seemed that her years from the Dornish sun had turned her olive skin a pale yellow, which only made her appear sicklier. The Princess gave Lyanna a sweeping glance before she left accompanied by another Dornish girl and Lady Ashara Dayne. _Jealousy_ , maybe they were all as jealous as one another but at least Rhaegar need only imagine Robert sleeping with her and it was only a vision, Rhaegar had a child ,he was no maiden. She shook the image from her mind. _Best not to dwell on it,_ she thought.  
"Prince Rhaegar, how can one look so sullen on a night like this?" He smiled at her half-heartedly as if to speak that he knew she was as unhappy as she was to see him in the arms of another.  
"Not sullen my lady, just deep within thought. Though the mind is a dangerous place." His eyes flickered to the ornate wooden chair his father sat in beside him. He nodded at her and turned back to Ser Arthur and continued talking, every so often his eyes would find hers again. _What are his thoughts? Let me know his thoughts_. She felt so foolish, like those foolish girls that she would take lessons with in Winterfell who would gush and swoon over Brandon every time he sauntered past. _Maybe I am foolish girl_. Robert's hand felt too tight in hers, more like the jaw of some rabid dog than a gentle lover. She could smell the wine on his breath when he spoke, Rhaegar smelt different of musk and spice. Rhaegar caught her eye again and she could not stand it any longer, to be so near him, so close she could kiss him again.  
"I fear I must take my leave my lords, your grace." she turned and bowed her head to the King who was shrouded in the shadow of the huge chair, only his pale eyes glinting. She bowed her head to the prince too and his eyes wandered over her as if she were naked. "The day's festivities have made me weary. I must say good night." she kissed Brandon lightly on the cheek as she walked past him and he winced as her hand grazed his shoulder. The maester had told him not to come but of course he had insisted and had drunk and eaten his fill with his brothers. Lyanna walked down the aisle and she felt the watchful gaze of many pairs of eyes. The wreath on her head suddenly felt very heavy, as if the rose had turned to iron, she wanted nothing more than to throw it on the hundreds of burning fires that lined the hall. _Let it wither in the flames, let it be ash_. When she reached her tent she clawed at the lace of the dress, sighing as it came undone and she could breathe naturally again. She threw it aside and pulled on a loose night dress. A shadow of a man walked close to her tent, his silhouette clear through the fabric, tall, cloaked and alone. _Could it be..._ Ned looked tentatively through the tent hangings and smiled broadly when he saw her. "I hoped you would be here."  
"Where else would I be dear brother?" She said, slightly disappointed.  
"In the woods, slaying squires..." He said, the sides of his mouth twitching upward.  
"None were slain, though I wished I had. I'm not sure father would approve of his lady daughter murdering squires in the depths of a forest. Lyanna Stark, squire slayer... Sounds quite good."  
"Well it would be Lyanna Baratheon soon enough."  
"Oh... Yes, I suppose it will." _How could I forget_. Harrenhal was merely a clouded dream in which they all lived, Brandon would leave for Riverrun and his Lady Catelyn and she... She would ride for the Storm Lands.  
"He will keep you safe, give you children. Is that not all we can ask?"  
"I could ask that my husband not already have a bastard in the vale." Ned's face turned hard, did she not think she would know. She had enquired about the temperament of her husband to be and it was the tale on all of their lips. He seemed to have a penchant for what lay between a woman's legs as much as he did for wine.  
"I- I do not deny he does but do not fret sister. He is a good man, a good match. You could hope for no higher."  
"For love, I suppose. Isn't that what most hope for brother?"  
"He does love you, I know it Lyanna, he will not dishonour you." she smiled sadly, he seemed so naive to her, maybe he should have been the innocent maiden and her the knight. Robert desired her, he would bed her and soon after grow tired. He would find another woman to warm his bed and his heart and she would sit in an abandoned room, the storms raging around her, alone, growing old and dreaming of her silver prince.  
"Love is sweet dearest Ned but it cannot change a man's nature." he looked down at his knees, clothed in grey and they knocked together slightly.  
"We must do our duty to our house." he murmured. Strange, their father's words had been lingering on her mind too.  
"We may lead different paths, that take us leagues apart, from home but you are will always be my brother Ned, my dear Ned. We are blood, we are Starks." he nodded and raised his head high, his long face bathed in the light and his grey eyes shone.  
"Starks of Winterfell." he stood up slowly, his dark hair resting on the thick fur trim of his cloak which swung around him as he turned for the camp. He turned back before he left a flicker of a smile across his lips "The lone wolf dies..." she smiled a little.  
"... But the pack survives." he turned and left and her words hung in the air. _But_ _I will be a lone wolf_ , she thought, they all would and when winter came the Starks of Winterfell might not survive to see the sun.


	8. Elia

 

The long journey back to King's Landing lay ahead of them and the Lords and Ladies of every house lined up outside the castle of Harrenhal to bid their King and champion farewell. The tents that had littered the grounds outside the castle had been cleared away and it seemed most would leave soon after them. The King was already sitting in his gilded carriage, alone and did not acknowledge the crowd that gathered for his honour. She felt oddly queasy when she had woken and soon brought up the meal from the night before into a vase that stood on the table beside her bed, now still she felt sick as if she stood on the deck of some swaying ship. Rhaegar's black destrier stood beside her carriage and she looked out at him as he surveyed the crowd, beaming his beautiful smile. He had never looked so handsome, his light golden skin glowing, his shoulder length silvery gold hair tossed by the breeze. His strong, lithe body was draped in his house colours and his dark lilac eyes twinkled in the early morning light.  
"The prince looks particularly handsome today, if I am not so bold to say your grace." Said Lady Ashara beside her. Her black hair was thick and straight and Elia assumed it would feel like silk should she touch it.  
"Yes, I suppose he does." She smiled. It made her feel slightly better that beautiful ladies like Ashara Dayne were jealous that it was Elia that was chosen to marry the dragon prince. But Ashara did not know that Rhaegar was not as besotted with his wife as he seemed. Elia looked across at the crowd now and spied Lyanna Stark standing amongst her brothers, her eldest Brandon had a thick bandage wrapped around his chest and shoulders underneath his tunic from the wound he had sustained at the hands of Rhaegar. She was dressed in grey and the dress was trimmed in pale fur with her long dark waves that fell to her waist brushed out across her shoulders. She had such a mournful look upon her lovely face, it was almost terrible to see, Elia wondered if it was due to being parted from her brothers to ride for Storm's End with her husband-to-be, or for some other reason, was she sad to be parted from another perhaps? _Let her be sad, let the girl cry_ , she thought darkly. She was glad to be putting so many leagues between them. A horn sounded and the carriages began to move, soon Harrenhal was a speck in the distance and she left the thoughts of the Stark girl behind. After a week of slow travelling they passed into the Crown Land's and King's Landing became visible on the horizon. The Red Keep on its high hill, with all its stone turrets and towers gleamed in the sunlight. _Home._ Well not truly home, she had not seen Sunspear in so many years, she missed the sun so. The sun here was weak and barely warmed her compared to the sun in Dorne, that baked the desert sands and made its people golden. They entered the gates of Kings Landing and the reek of the city began creeping in through the hangings. Elia wrinkled her nose, the small folk lived in such squalor and she held her nose until they entered the Red Keep and left the common people's stench behind. As she stepped from the carriage, helped by a young servant, she saw Lord Varys and Grand Maester Pycelle stood awaiting their return. They knelt before the King and Rhaegar came to stand beside her, linking his arms through hers. She wondered why Lord Tywin had not come to greet them too.  
"I do believe congratulations are in order Prince Rhaegar."  
"Thank you my lord, is there anything you do not know?" The eunuch tittered and shrugged his lavender robed shoulder slightly.  
"Well word travels faster than you it seems my prince."  
"A crone on a donkey would travel faster than us it seems." He glanced at the line of endless carriages and carts that had begun to pile into the stone courtyard through the gate with a look of distain. He'd rather have galloped the whole way home, his horse thundering beneath him, the land rolling by in a blur.  
"Your grace there is a matter to attend to before you rest." Grand Maester Pycelle rattled a little as he spoke, his many linked chain jiggling as he did.  
"It will wait." Said Aery's curtly and he strode away from them into the castle, his guard following him like pale shadows.  
"But your grace-." Varys quickly followed him calling.  
"I should go with them my love." Rhaegar kissed her cheek lightly, untangling his arm from hers and striding after his father. The sun set over the keep and she sat alone in Great Hall, alone on the high table. Rhaegar and the King did not join her so she bid Ashara come to sit in Rhaegar's place and talk with her.  
"Where are they I wonder?" Elia said sipping on a fine Arbor gold. "They have been in council for over three hours, surely they are counselled enough by now."  
"Men and their politics, I shall never understand it princess and I hope I never do." Ashara shook her lovely head, her black hair was tied in elaborate knots and they gleamed as she moved her head. She traced a braid with her hand admiringly.  
"Teach me how to do this Ashara, it is so beautiful."  
"Of course princess, I shall do it for you" They sipped on wine and ate slices of rare beef with honeyed pears and apples. Ashara was beautiful but slightly vacuous, men who courted her rarely found much beyond her beauty, though she was good-hearted. _There is no more a person can be than kind,_ she thought. She heard a door behind her swing on it's hinges and close quietly, a white figure concealed himself in the shadows. She had yet to see set Jamie Lannister in his white finery but he looked like a golden haired statue. Tall, proud and glittering. "He may be young but he is a fine looking man don't you think princess." Ashara had turned and looked at him, her head rested on her chin, her eyes flashing.  
"Ashara." She chastised playfully, giving me a light tap on the wrist. "He is more a boy than a man."  
"I've never been with a man with golden hair..." She mused aloud and Elia giggled. "It's a shame he must be celibate." She sighed and finished the rest of her wine. _Not all were though_. Oberyn had told her jestingly that their uncle had a paramour he hid in the city somewhere. She crinkled her nose at the thought of her sweet Uncle Lewyn writhing with passion. She wondered if she had some sand sister hidden away too. Oberyn had his two girls that he doted on at Sunspear, though she had not met them. As she thought of him she considered that he should have been dining with them and looked about the hall for his familiar black hair and Dornish drawl.  
"Have you seen my brother since we arrived home my lady?" Ashara looked about for him as well and her purple eyes swept the hall.  
"No princess, I cannot say I have. Let us ask Ser Jaime." Her mouth formed a wicked smile as she said his name and she called him over to them. H come eyed them warily and then glanced at the door he'd come from before walking over to them, his white cloak dazzlingly bright.  
"Ser Jaime, we have yet to meet." She said, smiling kindly. _He is handsome_ , _he has a boyish charm._  
"I have not had that honour princess." He bowed his head politely, his golden waves falling in his eyes.  
"Is my husband still in council Ser Jaime?"  
"Yes princess. It is still in session." He is words were short and blunt. He glanced back at the door again. It was the way with the Kingsguard, they always heard things they'd rather not hear. She suspected Jamie Lannister had already learnt this to his dismay. _Suffer in silence Ser and you will keep your tongue_  
"May I say Ser you look very fine in your new armor." Ashara placed a hand on his silver white enabled scales and he looked down at it confused. "Luckily white seems to be your colour.". He swallowed and coughed uncomfortably, moving a little away so her hand could not reach him.  
"Thank- thank you my lady. You are very kind to say so." He cleared his throat again as Ashara smiled lustily at him, her full lips parted to reveal her gleaming white teeth. _This is ridiculous_ , Elia thought. She rolled her eyes.  
"Have you seen my brother Ser? He has not been seen since we arrived and he was supposed to dine with us."  
"The red vi-" he stopped and started again. "Prince Oberyn has left the Red Keep princess, he left our procession through the city to frequent a... An inn." _Inn_ , _did he think her some fool_. He'd gone to some whorehouse no doubt and was probably surrounded by as many naked women as his gold could buy. She rolled her eyes again.  
"An inn." She scoffed. "I'm sure he is having an evening drink and enjoying the company of the small folk." Ser Jaime smiled and nodded to them before returning to his post in the corner of the room. As she left her meal and returned to her chamber she turned back on the emptying room and watched the shadow where his golden hair shone in the firelight. _He may be a boy, but this will make him a man_.

She lay in bed alone later, watching the night sky through the large window in the room. There was no moon and the city was cast in darkness without its light. She heard footsteps behind the door and soon after Rhaegar slowly turned the door knob before entering.  
"Oh I thought you would be asleep." He said wearily. He had dark purple circles forming under his matching purple eyes.  
"Almost." She said with a yawn, pushing herself up on her elbows. "Is everything alright? You've been gone such a long time."  
"Lord Tywin has resigned." He said blankly. Elia stared wide-eyed and felt her mouth drop open.  
"Resigned? But why?" Rhaegar raised his eyebrow at her, he often did this when he knew something she did not as if she were foolish for not knowing. He walked slowly towards the windows and placed long finger on the glass, tracing a swirling shape.  
"He and my father had a... Disagreement. You know how my father loves those who disagree with him." _It must be about his son, it must be about Ser Jaime._ Why else would a man who revelled in power turn away from such a powerful title?  
"But Lord Tywin has been Hand of the King for over ten years."  
"And now he can be The Lord of the Rock again. He will be gone by the dawn I don't doubt." He removed his day's clothes, casting them aside into a woven basket beside the bed. He had a bruise across his ribs from the tourney that had begun to turn a sickly yellow and he had only recently removed the sling from his dislocated shoulder .She drank in the image of him naked as if she would never see it again. It was not often she did, she was surprised he had decided to sleep here this night. He pulled on a pair of thin cotton breeches and climbed in beside her with a sigh. She bent over and kissed his cheek. He turned to look at her, a wary expression on his face. His lips were slightly parted and she kissed them. He stiffened and held still and did not kiss her back. She drew away from him and arched her brow.  
"Grand Maester Pycelle examined me before we left for Harrenhal. Should we want another child, he said the time was right." His eyes seemed to draw away, as if he disappeared somewhere in his mind. She wanted him so, since the moment she had laid eyes in him. She kissed him again and he kissed her back this time, after a while it almost felt like he lusted for her, the way his hands moved over her. It almost felt like he loved her. She recalled how her heart had raced and raced when she walked towards him in Baelor's Sept, the whole world watching . He had taken her hand in his and she could hardly breathe he was so beautiful, when he lent in to kiss her it was as if the Seven themselves had carved him from her dreams. He laid over her now she hardly remembered the last time they had kissed in the dark, reached for each other or woken up to the sun, in each other's arms. He reached down and pulled down her dress in one swift motion so she lay under him completely bare. He ran his hands from her breasts over her stomach to the mound of dark hair that grew between her thighs. He ran his hand past it, where she was already soaked and he slid a finger inside her. She shuddered and bit her lower lip with a whimper, he barely looked at her as he undid his breeches and took himself, hard as steel in his hand and guiding his way into her. She moaned softly and he began to rhythmically enter her over and over, the wet sounds penetrating the deafening silence of the castle until she felt the pleasurable tension building up inside him. _This is all I want, this is all I want_. Elia arched her back, moaning his name loudly, and her nails cutting into his back as he split his seed . They lay beside each other, Elia turning so she was back with her head nestled in his chest, Rhaegar with an arm around her. They stared out at the sky beyond the large window that was across opposite the bed, breathing heavily. The stars were tiny lights spinning above them and a red blur could be seen across the sky. She sat up to stare at it, squinting her eyes.  
"What is that Rhaegar?" she said pointing to it. He pushed his hair from his face and sat up to see where she pointed. He cocked his head and squinted at it too.  
"A star, no, a comet. A red comet..." he shook his head slightly, probably at a thought he had. "It is said in the ancient books of Asshai that the stars will bleed at the coming of Azor Ahai."  
"Azor Ahai?" she questioned, saying the word slowly, letting it roll over her tongue.  
"The Prince that was Promised." He said with a slightly smile. "He will save us all and the darkness will flee before him. My uncle told me that a woods witch told my great-grandfather that Azor Ahai would be born from my father and mothers blood line."  
"Would you not be the Prince that was Promised then my love?" He smiled and chuckled.  
"No, Uncle Aemon and I decided against it. Though from their line he _shall_ be born, let my seed quicken within you and it may be our son who saves the world." He kissed the top of her head and got up from the bed, dressing and closing the door behind him, leaving her alone in the dark. _It is all he wants me for, to bear him sons, nothing more. Nothing._ She could feel his seed dripping from her on to her thighs, she felt like a common whore. _You are a Princess of Dorne_ , she told herself as tears pricked in her eyes. _You are a daughter of the sun, you are not nothing_.  
"I am _not_ nothing." She spoke in the gloom and lay back, pulling the sheets over her so she was cocooned in them. She began to drift into sleep, dreaming of bleeding stars. She dreamt of fire, of burning skies and stars and Rhaegar with a fiery crown on his head, more beautiful than ever before.


	9. Brandon

The horizon was a distant line they rode for with haste.  
Brandon dug his silver spurrs into his horse and he galloped the dirt road that faded away beneath him. Harrenhal had disappeared days ago and they had ridden further west into the River Lands. He rode with his kinsmen Kyle Royce, Jeffory Mallister and Elbert Arryn. His squire Ethan Glover rode as hard as he could to keep up with the knights but he was not so used to horse back and eventually Brandon would have to slow his mount to a trot so that Ethan could catch up. Slowly, slowly the lands around them became greener and more fertile and in the distance as they roasted a pheasant Kyle had shot down they heard the roaring rush of the Trident. They made for the road that ran parallel to the Red Fork and would lead them straight to the gates of the seat of House Tully. Ned and Benjen had said their farewells at the dawn to ride for the North and Brandon had watched them ride away with a heavy heart, he so wished he were homeward bound too. _I will be at Winterfell soon_ , he thought. _I must do my duty first_. He held comfort in that, but Lyanna, sweet Lyanna had ridden south, so far south to Storm's End with Lord Robert at her side and what would await for her there he could not know. Lord Robert had gotten very drunk on the night the dragon prince was claimed the champion and put that damned thorny crown upon Lyanna's head, he had taken some camp follower and given her a black eye as well as leaving her bow legged, when he caught the girl leaving his tent the next morning he had felt his jaw set in a hard line. He had left the Storm Lord with a frozen warning; _"_ _Treat my sister this way my lord and you will feel the wrath of the North"_. They packed up their meal on the dirt road and Ethan stamped out the fire with one booted foot.  
"How long to Riverrun Ser?" Ethan asked dusting ash from the shoe.  
"Do I look a map? I do not know, I have not ridden there before." He was sorry to be so sharp with the boy but his mind had been in another place, a place where there was no marriage, no farewells.  
"Do not mind Brandon, Ethan, he's like a maiden on her moonsblood." Said Kyle, giving the squires shoulder a friendly squeeze as Elbert and Jeffory guffawed.  
"And you would know, from all the countless maidens you have bedded." Brandon rolled his eyes, pulling his fur trimmed cloak around him and walking to his horse, tethered about a large tree trunk.  
"I'll have you know I've had every woman in Winterfell." He shouted after him and Brandon laughed.  
"Well when we return I'll be sure to ask Old Nan how big your cock was." His friends mounted beside him and he stared around to check that everything had been gathered before wheeling about his mount. They begun the days ride and soon reached the Red Fork road, with only one stop to allow Elbert to make his water on the roadside. They passed gaggles of smallfolk with carts come to, or going to trade within the castle carrying the fruits of the Reach, the gold of the Crown Lands or spices of Dorne, all of which passed to let them gallop by. Jeffory held a streaming Stark banner in his hand to alert the watchers of their coming and allow them passage. The great castle rose, sheer walls of rock straight from the thrashing waters and Brandon could see why Riverrun was a formidable keep to siege, a great manmade moat ran along one edge of the keep and in crisis the river would break in and the moat would swell leaving it an impenetrable island surrounded by the river from all sides. A huge heavy bridge was resting on the shores closest to them and armoured men bearing the Tully trout greeted them.  
"What is your business in Riverrun sers?" Said a man his voice ringing through his steel helm as he spied the direwolf that fluttered in the wind behind Brandon.  
"I am Brandon Stark of Winterfell. I am here at the invitation of your Lord."  
"Very good Ser. You will need to leave your horses within the outer walls and take a boat to the keep. The Lord Tully awaits you." Brandon nodded curtly and goaded his horse into a canter its hooves clattering across the bridge and his kinsmen followed. A stable boy greeted them at the other side and led them down and round to the busy stables through a bustle of busy traders and buyers who gazed at the men in gleaming armour as they made their way through.  
"Down the steps to the docks my lords." Said the boy. He was caked in dirt and smelt of horseshit but under all the dirt he seemed to have a gentle face.  
"I'm no Lord boy." Kyle laughed, flicking a copper coin to the young boy who caught it with glee as he led their horses away. They clambered into the boat and a young burly man with sandy blonde hair rowed across the smooth water, here within the walls the great rivers currents were calmed and the water was still. They came to a set of mossy, slippery steps on the other side and the triangular keeps walls rose again sheer out of the water. They climbed carefully from the boat, Jeffory cursing when he slipped on the lowest step and quickly yanked his foot of the water. The Tully banner fluttered in the wind from all towers and buildings, the trout leapt out at them and the red and blue adorned every battlement. A knight dressed in Tully colours but with a onyx fish across his chest greeted them, his auburn hair streaked with grey but his blue eyes still bright.  
"Ser Brandon. I am Ser Brynden Tully, brother to my liege Lord."  
"Ser Brynden, the Blackfish." He nodded courteously. Ser Brynden was a renowned warrior and he had looked forward to meeting this accomplished knight in the flesh. "These are my kinsmen Kyle Royce of House Royce, Elbert Arryn heir to the Vale and Jeffory Mallister of House Mallister. " They each bowed their heads to the knight. "This is my squire Ethan Glover."  
"Very good sers. If you would follow me to the courtyard, the Lord and his family await your arrival." Brandon walked beside the knight and his kinsmen followed behind dutifully. "I was very sorry to hear of your defeat at Harrenhal Ser Brandon." He said, flashing a crooked smile at them.  
"Not as sorry as I was Ser." He grinned as the knight chuckled.  
"No doubt ser. I had a gold dragon on you as the champion." He said patting his tunic pocket where a coin bag clinked.  
"Then I am even sorrier." They strode down a long cobbled street and merchants and buyers alike bowed at the sight of a knight of their house. "Prince Rhaegar Targaryen is a worthy champion."  
"Aye he is Ser. A great man is the prince." _A great man who has strange eyes for mine own sister_. Brandon had not liked the way the Prince had stared too long, the way his eyes lingered and his words sounded. There was something... Amiss with him, that he could not place. They walked a little further and the doors of the keep stood open and in the courtyard beyond House Tully were assembled, waiting. Lord Hoster stood tall and proud amongst his house, broad and grey haired with a thick beard. His face was warm and jovial.  
"Ser Brandon! It is an honour to have you." He boomed across the courtyard stepping to meet Brandon. He clasped the Lord's hand and clenched it tightly. "Strong hand." He grinned and Brandon returned his fatherly smile. He wore the Tully colours of red and blue with the trout leaping across his chest, a blue cloak on his shoulders which fell like water over a cliff to the ground.  
"Lord Tully, it is an honour to be your guest. These are my kinsmen." He introduced his friends and squire and Lord Tully greeted them just as kindly.  
"Come, come let me introduce you to my kin." He led Brandon forward and toward a young beautiful girl with long red hair that shone like copper in the sun. Her blue eyes watched him warily and she smiled weakly as he approached. "My daughter, Lady Catelyn. Isn't she a beauty?"  
"Yes my Lord." He said taking the Lady Catelyn's hand, brushing his lips against the skin softly. "The Maiden looks down upon you in envy my lady, for you are surely more beautiful than she."  
"Thank you Ser Brandon. You are too kind." She nodded her head slightly and her auburn waves blew in the breeze. A little anxiety of the marriage seemed to ease. _She is a fine looking girl_. Lord Tully pushed Brandon along to his next daughter named Lysa who had a Tully look about her but any fairness she may have possessed was extinguished by her older sister and Brandon only glanced at Lady Lysa momentarily before turning his gaze back to Lady Catelyn. As he did she stared at him too and held his watch, He grinned and winked so she blushed and turned back to Lord Tully who had now moved along to a little boy of ten. "This is my son Edmure. My heir, aren't you my boy?" He ruffled the boys reddish hair and the boy looked at Brandon in wonder.  
"Are you a knight ser?" He asked quickly, his cloak brushing along the floor as he stepped forwards.  
"Yes little lord. I am a knight and heir to Winterfell. One day we will be great friends, ruling our houses together. We shall be brothers once our houses are bonded." He said bending down to eye level with the boy who gleamed with glee.  
"Yes! Yes!" Brandon patted the boy's head and Lord Tully continued to introduce him to members of his house. Behind Lady Catelyn was a weedy looking boy of around Ben's age with dark hair and quick black eyes that darted over Brandon and his men in a way that did not please him. "This is my ward, Peytr Baelish." Brandon nodded at the boy. He was a weedy, thin boy with dark, almost black hair that had been cropped rather short and he had a few hairs above his lip he surely thought made him appear older but in Brandon's opinion only added to his youth.  
"You wear no sigil, what is the house you hail from boy?" Peytr flinched at the word _boy_ , he clearly thought himself a man. _Which he is not_.  
"I come from the Fingers ser, though I doubt you would know of my house." His voice was a weedy as him. The boy smiled. A no-one from nowhere tried to mock him, how brave or foolish. Brandon raised an eyebrow at the boy and placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing slightly harder than he should.  
"When you are man grown you will learn that to doubt another man will be your undoing. But you are boy and boys do not know." His kinsmen tittered behind him as the other men around them chuckled at Peytr and moved aside so Lord Tully could lead them into the keep.

The feast Lord Tully had laid out had been a spectacle of the riches of Riverrun, with fish of every kind and the fruits of the bountiful land. Brandon sat to the left of Lord Hoster and Ser Brynden sat on his Lords right. He had begged the Blackfish to tell him of the fight that had gained him such renown throughout the Seven Kingdoms, the fight against the Band of Nine, a group of outlaws. He had eventually obliged by the insistence of his Lord brother and Brandon had been grateful.   
"Mercinaries, merchants and pirates hungry for gold and glory. That bastard Blackfyre gave them some false hope of both and like fools they followed. My tale is like many others who followed the Targaryens into battle against the dragon pretender but if an honourable ending is what you seek then Ser Barristan Selmy was Maelys Blackfyre's slayer, he who ended the line and cut his bloody way through the Golden Company to do it. Many men covet what is not theres to have, be it power, gold, honour or love. Most fail, however highborn or pure of blood." Lady Catelyn sat the other side of Brandon and every so often would break her chatter with her sister to engage Brandon.  
"I hope you are finding Riverrun pleasant so far Ser." She said sweetly.  
"It is most pleasing, my lady." He said, her eyes were as blue and deep as the Red Fork that flowed around them. Lord Hoster placed a hand on his shoulder and he turned to speak with him. He heard Lady Catelyn giggle behind him and recount it to her sister.  
"He's so handsome." Lady Lysa sighed. "I'm so jealous Cat, just imagine bedding him..."  
"Lysa!" She gasped quietly, giggling slightly. "But yes, I suppose he is handsome. _Very_." Brandon smiled to himself. He thought about bedding her too, her long auburn hair in his hands as he ripped her corset from her... He realised he had paid no mind to her Lord father's words, probably not best to be thinking about fucking his daughter right in front of him. Yet still a nagging feeling in his stomach told him he did not want her, not truly. _There have been other girls I have desired more._ Barbrey Ryswell, her dark hair and darker eyes. He thought back to his youth in Barrowton and the time he had spent in the Rills, riding their beautiful horses through the rolling hills. More often than not after a day's riding the barns were empty, a hill was abandoned and he would push the dark-haired daughter of the Lord of Ryswell down against the soft earth, her corset already loosely laced, ready for him. He would let his hands wander and she would writhe beneath him moaning his name in a way that made him spill his seed into her as she sighed.  
"Sorry my Lord, I was distracted." He said with a cough, shaking his dark curls. _No, that is done now, this is the path that I must take.  
_ "My little Cat already has you bewitched Ser Brandon?" He smiled as they both stared at Lady Catelyn.  
"Well you did not lie when you called her a beauty my lord." _She is beautiful and maybe she will not be so shy once we are married, or in the presence of her kin._  
"That she is. Beautiful enough to be a Lady Stark I wonder." He almost said no, he almost told this kindly Lord that he could take his daughter and ram her up his arse. _Father probably would not take that so well._ He smiled politely and nodded again, sipping on his wine.  
"She is, my lord." Duty and honour. _Fucking duty and honour._  
"Good," Lord Hostor clapped his hands together and called the attention of the hall. "My dear Lords, Ladies, bannermen, kinsmen and good folk of the Riverlands, it is decided that Brandon Stark shall marry my Catelyn before the year is done, binding House Tully and House Stark in a sacred union in the eyes of the old gods and the new." A great cheer went up and men banged their goblets on the tables in approval. Brandon grinned at the crowd and he caught the eyes of his friends on the table below who looked concerned rather than joyful. They knew he did not wish to marry her, or marry anyone for that matter, they knew their days of jousting and hunting and whoring would be over and this was the end. He nodded solemnly to his friends to reassure them but his friend's eyebrows were still furrowed and Kyle was swirling his wine in his glass, his mouth set in a hard line. Brandon heard his name from every corner as men toasted him and one called louder than the others.  
"Ser Brandon." A voice called above the din. Brandon thought it just another well-wisher but it called again, louder now. The room quietened slightly and Brandon looked around for the voice. Below the high table stood Peytr Baelish, dressed in what was probably his finest brown tunic. His reedy voice carried across the room. He had heard Catelyn and her sister call him Littlefinger, it suited him well. "Offering me your congratulations Baelish? You are too kind." Brandon said with a sneering smile. The boy's beady eyes widen-eyed as the table around him snickered. Littlefinger smiled slyly.  
"I challenge you, for the hand of Lady Catelyn." He called confidently, his words reverberating round the room as the snickering died. Brandon looked down at his goblet, absorbed in the contents thoughtfully and placing it down, looking up under his lashes at Littlefinger, clenching his jaw. This boy was a fool, he was two and ten at most, and Brandon doubted he'd ever even picked up a sword let alone killed a man. But that is what Brandon would do, he would slice him cock to collar before the boy had even caught his breath. Lord Tully to Brandon's left looked horrified but not as much as Catelyn, her mouth was open and she shook her head at Peytr, repulsed.  
"Ser Brandon will bleed you dry boy." Called Ser Brynden Blackfish. "This is fools talk." Peytr continued to hold Brandon's gaze and the hall remained silent after the Blackfish had spoken. Brandon rose from his seat slowly, scraping the wooden chair across the stone floor.  
"I accept your challenge _Littlefinger_. But only Kings fight to first blood and you are no King. If you lose, you pay with your life." Peytr blanched slightly and swallowed but eventually nodded. "So be it. On the dawn then Littlefinger." Peytr stepped from his place and walked slowly through the silent hall, the men watching him as he went. A chair along from Brandon scraped across the floor and he saw Lady Lysa hurry through a door at the back of the hall and heard it slam behind her. Catelyn sat still and silent, wide eyed. The hall slowly began to fill with chatter again but it was much less merry and much more hushed than before. Lord Tully turned to Brandon shaking his head sadly.  
"I am deeply sorry Ser Brandon. The boy should not have spoken." Brandon shook his own head, his dark hair falling into his face.  
"It is not I you should feel sorry for my Lord, but for the boy on the morn." He did not like the idea of killing a child, it was no fair match. To declare it in front of the whole of Riverrun made it impossible to deny and so it must be that way. He was a boy that loved a Lord's daughter, he was not the first but he must know he would die _. What fools do for love,_ Brandon thought.

The courtyard was cold; the sun had yet to warm it. Brandon walked into the pale light, his men by his side. He had not worn his armour since the Tourney at Harrenhall and the shoulder plate Prince Rhaegar had destroyed had been replaced at Winterfell. His sword rested at his hip and the hilt clinked against his armour as he walked. He didn't wear a helm, he thought he must make it at least seem fair though it was not. The Tully's stood in a line in front of the hall doors and on all sides dozens of men, women and children had gathered to see the duel. Brandon spotted Littlefinger, in his same brown tunic with a flimsy rusted chainmail over the top, something he'd found no doubt. He walked to stand beside Lord Tully who grasped his hand tightly.  
"Make it quick Ser Brandon." He whispered and Brandon nodded. He intended for the boy to be dead before the sun rose properly, this would be the last time he saw it. Littlefinger held a sword in his hand, it was old and jagged but the edged had the shine of newly polished steel. Peytr walked towards them and smiled at Catelyn.  
"Your favour my lady?" He said boldly. She did not look at him and held out a lace handkerchief to Brandon. He nodded to her taking it in his hand and pressed it to his lips.  
"Keep it for now my lady, I shall treasure it when I am done." He smiled and she returned it weakly. He turned to the centre of the yard, where Littlefinger now stood. The black hair already clung to his forehead with sweat and he watched Brandon warily and he strode toward him. Brandon drew his sword with a ringing sound and Peytr's eyes widened. The blade was nearly the size of Brandon and the heavy steel needed great power to wield. He took a step towards the boy and held his sword out, he did not want this, it was an uneven match and Brandon knew how easily killing this child would be. He doubted he'd ever had a swordmaster or even held a sword before. He swung at Littlefinger who stepped back clumsily, his eyes darting around the gathered crowd pleadingly.  
"Raise your sword Peytr." Brandon commanded. The boy tentatively raised the notched blade and stepped toward Brandon. He slowly pulled back his arm and swung weakly, Brandon caught it with a strong arm and his own swing caused Littlefinger to drop the sword. As he watched his sword fly through the air he scrambled towards it, grabbing it from the cobblestones and standing again. He swung for Brandon again but with a ring of steel was deflected and Brandon lunged and cut through Peytr's thin chainmail with one smooth slice, he looked down at his bare chest and then at Brandon, his black eyes crackling with fury.  
"Catelyn is mine Stark." Brandon laughed at this ridiculous sentiment.  
"Is that so boy?"  
"She can't marry some bastard from the North. Because that's what you Northerners are; heathens, bastards and whores." Brandon lunged for him now and put his weight behind his sword, Littlefinger raised his arm to meet Brandon's and felt the boy's wrist snap under the blow. The boy dropped his sword clutching his wrist in agony stumbling backwards so he fell with his back on the stone floor. Brandon stood over him now, his longsword in hand and place his sword point in the boys naval, dragging it along the skin to rest at the hollow of his pale neck. The long cut bled, blood dripping down both sides of his body to pool on the floor under him.  
"Boys should not play at mens games Peytr it's a shame you could never learn that lesson." He pressed the point of his sword a little deeper into his throat and the boy gagged _. Let us be done with this_ , he thought.  
"Wait! Wait, stop!" He turned and saw Catelyn Tully running towards him across the courtyard every eye on her as her auburn hair trailed behind her. She reached Brandon and held his sword arm, staring at him with wide blue eyes. "Ser Brandon please, if you bare me, your future wife, any love, please spare him."  
"Spare him?" Brandon raised an eyebrow quizzically, she had not protested earlier or yesterday when the challenge was made.  
"He is only a boy Ser. Only a child."  
"Cat.. Cat." Littlefinger called weakly from the ground but Lady Catelyn only looked on him with disgust and Brandon saw so much hatred between them she wondered why she would spare him at all. He stared at her, crystal as the sky would be if the the sun would rise.  
"For you my lady, anything." He bowed his head to her and she took his hands in hers, kissing them.  
"Cat, Cat pl-please." The boy stuttered, reaching out a weak arm for her, the wrist at the end of his arm hung limply, the bone poking through the skin nauseatingly. She gave him another look of disgust, her auburn hair blowing about her as he clawed his way toward her, leaving a bloody smudge across the stone. She reached up to Brandon and kissed him lightly on the cheek before turning on her heel and striding into the castle, pushing her way through the crowd. Peytr's broken hand was still outstretched, his eyes had lost all their smugness and they brimmed with tears. He made to get up but Brandon hooked his sword under the boys chin and he became still, turning his glassy eyes on Brandon, hatred etched across every inch of his face _. Let him hate me, let him learn what a man grown truly is.  
_ "Let her go Peytr. She is lost to you now." When he spoke he sounded like his father, his own voice so unfamiliar to him.  
"She called me a boy..." One solitary tear leaked from a cold black eye and it meandered down his face to mingle with the blood on his chest. "Boys do not know." He whispered Brandon's words. _Boys do not know_ _,_ Brandon thought, _but men do._


	10. Rhaegar

The chamber was cold as the dawn that was nearing, creeping closer.  
The edges of the night had turned pale blue and soon the sun would bring another day. Elia slept in the bed beside him, heavy with child and restless, she mumbled in her sleep, a name and turned in the blankets. He thought of Lyanna, leagues away at Storm's End, the sea crashing around her, was she sleeping? Or did she sit up in the dark thinking of him? She must have heard the news of his and Elia's child, would she resent him? He had so many questions but none that he could ask her. A raven would be read by someone else, a messenger couldn't be trusted. When he would see her next he did not know, only that when he did she would be married and belong to another man. He lent forward, resting his head on his fist and looking out at the sky again. To be with her, he had forgotten what it was to be alone. He had felt his heart beat furiously in his chest and the blood pump through his veins, the blood seemed to course through a part of him he had thought long gone. King's Landing was never so unwelcome; it seemed more a prison than a castle now, keeping him from her with its high walls and iron gates. He had always been somewhat melancholy, though it took him in bouts. When he was alone he felt a shadow creep over him and he could not place it, it caused him doubt and grief. It was a shadow that haunted him late at night, as he would drift off to sleep the shadow would call to him and he could never turn it away. It used to take the shape of his father in his youth but as a man grown it had become nothing more than a haze. He had thought it the beginning of madness, he wondered if that was how it had started for his father, though he dare not ask. Some days it felt hopeless, that this spectre would haunt him forever, there was escape and one day there would be no shadow, it would be only him, he would become it and they would be one. Part of him knew he was born to be a King, to rule, the other didn't know who he was at all. That part felt he had no place, only that he knew what he was supposed to become and then became it. When he stripped away his armour, his sword, his harp what was he really but another man? But Lyanna, she was everything but that, she was fire and passion. She had purpose and spirit, everything he craved for himself. She made him know himself, as if his purpose had been in her all this time. She was not any another woman, she was blazing trail lighting the way through the dark. He could not sleep, he could not eat or drink or dream, there was only emptiness it felt as if the moon had been hidden by a cloud and the pitiless gods had taken it from the night. _Am I a cruel man? Am I weak for letting her go?_ Elia rustled the sheets as she turned in her sleep. The sun begun to rise and the sky was stained a dusky rose. The bravest birds started the morning song and they called for a lover, calling, calling. Rhaegar looked across King's Landing and his eyes were drawn to the ruined Dragonpit high on its hill, where the dragon's of old were bred and chained. _A dragon could fly to her_ , he thought. He could call her from her stony tower and hold out his hand, they could fly across the Narrow Sea and disappear. The sunlight filled the room, its orange glow turning his skin gold, Elia stirred again as it the light settled across her face _. It is a dream, only a dream._

The gardens were in full bloom and the flowers overwhelmingly fragrant in the afternoon breeze. Rhaegar sat on a stone bench with a book on his lap _Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History_   written by Septon Barth, Hand of King Jaehaerys I, though considered more sorcerer than Septon of the Seven the book was fascinating none the less. Though books on dragonlore were hard to come by Rhaegar would wager that the library at the Red Keep was only rivalled by that of that of Oldtown, the archmaesters knew things of dragonlore he could never dream to. He considered writing to his Uncle Aemon, maester at Castle Black to question him on the finer points he could not quite grasp, he hadn't written to him in so long, Aemon would wish to know about Rhaegar's coming child, he had written to him about the comet in the sky the night they made the child. He wrote that it was a sign the prophecy would be fulfilled, Azor Ashai would come.  
" _Death comes out of a dragon's mouth, but death does not go in that way."_ He read. Any man foolish or brave enough to stand before the jaws of a dragon would perish and would never be hailed a dragonslayer. There is no sure way to slay a dragon it seemed, freedom and time makes them strong and it is only the limitation of that which can kill them.  
"There he is, the shining Dragon Prince." Rhaegar looked up, startled and a well dressed figure was striding towards him. Lord Jon Connington walked across the yard with all the boisterous confidence that he exuded, his thick fiery hair combed into waves and his matching beard trimmed. Rhaegar stood grinning, setting the book aside and as Jon reached him and they embraced. They broke apart and Rhaegar viewed his friend in his finery, in the ivory and crimson of House Connington with the two griffins embroided on his chest.  
"My dearest friend, what brings you from the Storm Lands?" He embraced him as he reached him, his fiery hair brushing the side of Rhaegar's face.  
"Do I need any more reason than to visit my oldest friend? " Jon's hand patted his cheek happily and they sat beside each other. Rhaegar called for wine and two cups and they sat in the sun together. "We have not spoken since your glorious success at the tourney."  
"It has been too long." Rhaegar nodded in agreement. _He will ask of Lyanna,_ he thought.  
"Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan defeated." He said proudly, shaking his head in disbelief. "You are a greater jouster and swordsman than I could ever be Rhaegar."  
"That is surely a lie Jon, you were always better than I." Jon snorted in contempt and brushed away the comment with a gloved hand. He sipped on his wine and turned to look around the garden which was relatively empty beside Myles who hovered behind them and a few children tending to the flowers.  
"Though that business with the Stark girl though Rhaegar..." He murmured under his breath.  
"A momentary weakness for a pretty girl, my friend." Jon arched an eyebrow. _He does not believe me, he knows me too well._ "Though I do not have them often, I admit."  
"But when you do, you do so in front of the whole bloody realm." Rhaegar grinned nodding in agreement.  
"Well, I have never been one to do things by halves." Jon laughed deeply and took a large swig of wine.  
"I see the princess was not so wroth about it, not with another child in her belly so soon after."  
"No, there were questions of course but none I could not answer, Elia is not so immune to my charms." He said with a smile. Jon pursed his lips, he had never liked Elia, not from the moment it was known they were to marry. Rhaegar suspected it was due to Jon's love of their time as young squires, that he knew that with the marriage truly came the end of their time together. "Do not give me that look Jon, Elia is my wife, and you, my dearest friend. I so wish that you could be a little fonder of her." Jon placed his hand on Rhaegar's cheek again, where his hand so often seemed to linger. " _I_   wish that we were young boys once again, pouring wine and infuriating Ser Willem Darry with our poor swordplay. But now I am a Lord and you a true Targaryen prince."  
"Where has that sweet time gone my friend?" Jon sighed taking his hand away from Rhaegar face and raising his glass.  
"Well let us drink to your child, for a boy and for your blood to rule our realm forever more." Rhaegar raised his own and they drank.  
"To a son." Rhaegar had been told by many they prayed for a son, he had gone to the sept and prayed for one himself when he had first learned he was blessed with another child. _Let it be a son I teach to be a true man, a true prince, a truer king._ "When is this little one of yours due to be born?"  
"Grand Maester Pycelle says within the next few weeks, you might even be here to meet him, unless you go gallivanting back to the Roost before then."  
"Gallivanting?" He said with a chuckle. "I have lordly matters to attend to my prince." He only ever called him his title when he meant to mock him; they had done away with courtesy many years ago. "Lord Baratheon has not been so dutiful to the Storm Land's of late; it seems he is too taken with your Queen of Love and lust, or whatever it was." Jon waved away the phrase like a fly that flitted over his food. Rhaegar felt his jaw clench. He had heard no word of Lyanna since they parted at Harrenhal.  
" _His_ Queen of Love and Beauty," He corrected. "Surely she is not so distracting?"  
"Either it's that or it's the wine that keeps him from giving his Lord's audience." He hoped it was the wine, _let it be the wine_ , he thought. "Though I must return within the next three moons for their damned wedding, maybe after he has fucked this wolf girl he will get back to his duty." Rhaegar felt his jaw tighten again and his hand resting on the bench beside him curled in a fist. He did not need Jon's encouragement to imagine his drunken cousin taking Lyanna's maidenhead from her, looming over her in the dark, muscled and strong. Worst of all to imagine her in the throes of pleasure with another man. He took a sip of wine and recovered himself.  
"Let us hope that is true Jon, if not I shall send word to my cousin that his proficiency to rule the Storms Land's has come under question." The thought of Robert Baratheon's embarrassment to be questioned by his own prince comforted Rhaegar a little and eased his jealous heart.  
"Not from mine own mouth I hope." He said nudging Rhaegar in the side with an elbow.  
"Of course not, it will be merely suggested one of his bannermen has said so." Rhaegar winked at his friend who chortled in return.  
"Well I must go and rest Rhaegar, it is a longer ride than I remember from the Roost and my arse has never been so raw." Rhaegar laughed as they rose from their stone seat.  
"I will seek you out on the morrow; you will dine with Elia and myself." Jon winced slightly as began to walk away.  
"I will not hear against it, you will love her as I do if it is the last thing I do." He shouted after him.  
"I fear your life will be overwhelmingly disappointing then my friend." He called over his shoulder as he walked back through the vibrant gardens.

Weeks passed of much the same, Jon returned to Griffin's Roost and it seemed only the books he read offered any comfort from the slow ebb of time. _A dull life_ , he thought, the most thrilling news was Viserys had lost his two front teeth and had run to Rhaegar in a bloody mess to proudly show him them.  
"Brother you are almost a man grown." He had said ruffling his silver gold hair with a smile.  
"I _am_ a man, mother says so." He was an perfect replica of Rhaegar, with lighter eyes but they could have been twins.                               
"Does she?" He'd said chuckling, taking a cloth and wiping the blood from his brother's mouth. "Well I think she's right."  
"I have practiced my High Valyrian too brother, listen. _Nyke Viserys hen Targārio Lentrot, hen Valyrio Uēpo ānogār iksan."  
_ "Very good brother, father must hear it." Viserys had beamed and run to show Rhaenys his teeth that he clutched tightly in a small hand. _He is Viserys of the House Targaryen, of the blood of Old Valyria and he will be just like the rest of us, miserable or mad.  
_ He sat on the same bench every day, with a different book and wondered the same thing. _Does she think of me?_ _Where is she now?_ He imagined her standing on the battlement of a tower, looking out over the grey sea, the wind tossing her hair around her as it did the waves and she stared out into the distance. No matter how hot the sun burned during the false spring he still felt cold, the sunlight never seemed to warm his skin, no matter how long he sat there. His father had appointed a new Hand, Lord Owen Merryweather, a jolly old man with a trimmed beard and little other hair. His father enjoyed this Lord's thin praise and lavish feasts but he was no Lord Tywin. It was an iron fist that was needed to rule the Seven Kingdoms. _When I am King the first thing I will do is reappoint Lord Tywin,_ he thought. A pattering of hurried footsteps broke his daydream and he looked around for the owner. Grand Maester Pycelle was rushing through the gardens, his eyes watering and he breathed heavily with every step, his heavy chain clinking and rattling.  
"Grand Maester?" Rhaegar said surprised.  
"My prince, thank the gods I have found you. The princess..." He put his hands on his knees to breath heavily and Rhaegar threw the book aside, wide eyed. _The child, please let it not be the child._ Elia had been sick almost every day since the babe was conceived and now, heavy with child she appeared so frail that Rhaegar had wondered if she could hope to survive _. Let the child live_ , he thought. "The princess is giving birth my prince." Rhaegar's face spilt into a smile and he grabbed the face of the old man.  
"This is wonderful news! Where? Where is she?" He wheeled about aimlessly for the direction of his wife.  
"Your chamber my prince." Rhaegar pushed past the man who began to hurry behind him with no hope of keeping his pace. Rhaegar sprinted from the gardens, through the courtyard, apologising to servants who he almost collided with and skidded around the corner. He ran over the drawbridge of Maegor's Holdfast, a castle within a castle. The bridge rattled with every heavy footfall, the iron spikes in the deep dry moat below rusty but sharp. His heart pounded wildly and his breath was ragged as he slid in front of his own bedchamber door. He heard a commotion from within and a scream. He pulled open the door and was shocked at how many people were present. At least a dozen septas milled about the room, gathering towels, boiling water, so many so that the bed was completely obscured from view.  
"Elia?" He called, pushing his silver hair from his face and the bustling septas turned to look at him in astonishment, bowing their heads as he moved past them. He walked towards the bed and they moved aside so he could be with his wife. Elia was lying back on what seemed to be every pillow in King's Landing, with white sheets around her. He saw a septa with sandy hair remove a basket of blood soaked cloth and he blanched. Elia wore a dark blue night dress and her knees were drawn up, the septa tried to cover her as he stared but he batted her away and he knelt to hold his wife's hand. He pushed back her hair from her forehead which was drenched in sweat, she was so pale she could have been dead. "Elia, my love. Breathe." She took sharp breaths in and stared at him, tears welling up in her dark eyes.  
"I am scared Rhaegar." The tears rolled down her face and he wiped them away. "I do not want to die, do not let me die." He felt tears prick in his own eyes and swallowed them back, she was so sad, so frail, and all he wanted was to protect her.  
"I promise on my life you will not die, not now, not today." She nodded and he bent to kiss her forehead. She clenched as if she were to wretch and her bulging stomach contracted. She squeezed his hand so tightly he thought she might break it and screamed, more tears rolling down her face that reddened with the effort and pain. His eyes flickered to the end of the bed and he saw the white sheets were stained crimson. _Too much blood_ , he thought. Grand Maester Pycelle was chivvying away septas and came to stand at the end of the bed, shaking his head as he looked at the blood that had begun to seep to the edge of the sheet and drip onto the floor. He hushed Elia as she cried. _I cannot watch, it is torture._ More blood soaked the bed and the sun had begun to set outside the window, staining the room the same colour as the sheet.  
"Princess it is time, you must push." The maester said a withered hand on her knee.  
"No, no please, no." She begged softly. The room was swelteringly hot and Rhaegar felt himself begin to sweat, Elia's hand clawing at his own.  
"You must push princess." She looked up at Rhaegar mournfully and he held her hand to his lips.  
"Think of our child Elia, bring him into this world. Be brave, I am here with you." She gritted her teeth, the veins visible in her head as she pushed, pushed, pushed and then in a wave of blood and screams he heard a cry, faint at first and then strong. In his arms, Grand Maester Pycelle held a bawling, bloody baby.  
"It is a boy your graces." Rhaegar beamed and he turned to Elia who smiled weakly before falling back on the pillows exhausted.  
"A boy, a boy, a boy." She whispered. _My boy, my son_. The maester was handed a pair of golden scissors and cut a long pink cord came from the babe's stomach and then handed the crying child to a septa who strode away to wash him. Rhaegar stood to try and glimpse the child through the throng of women. "Where is my son?" Asked Elia weakly, "Where is..." Her eyes rolled back in her head then fluttered open again and Rhaegar watched more blood gush from between her legs.  
"Elia? Elia!" The room was a blur of red and white and screaming and blood. The maester put a hand on his shoulder.  
"I think it best you leave us for now my prince, I will send for you when the time is right." He kissed Elia on her lips, her skin sweaty and sickly but he didn't care, he looked about through the horde of people and was chivvied out of the room. He stood pacing anxiously in the corridor, there was so much blood, too much blood. He paced and paced, the flagstones beneath his feet felt as if he were wearing them away to sand. Hours, maybe days could pass and he would not know in this windowless place. A septa appeared in the doorway, flustered and her white sleeves splattered with crimson.  
"Elia is she-."  
"She is resting my prince, the Grand Maester shall come soon to discuss her health ." She dropped her gaze from his when he caught it, studying the floor and bowed, scurrying from him and away into the darkness beyond. More and more septas began to file from the room, an endless trail of weary looking women who bowed their heads to him before disappearing round the corners of the winding castle. The door swung on its iron hinges again and the Grand Maester had a film of sweat across his brow as if he himself had just birthed a child, he patted it away with his sleeve and looked about for Rhaegar.  
"Ah, there you are Prince Rhaegar. Your wife... oh your wife." He wrung his hands together and Rhaegar's mind raced. _She is safe, let her be safe._ He prayed to every god he'd known, he'd read. The Seven, the Old Gods, the Red God, the Sea God. _Let anyone hear me, let her live_. "Rhaenys was not easy to bring into this world and it seems your princely son was even more so. She has lost a fair amount of blood but I fear the damage is more than I can mend."  
"More than you-," He felt his eyes prickle and a lump rose in his throat. _Not her, not her_. "What do you speak of, what damage?"  
"Her body is... weak. I fear she will not, can not, bare another child." _You have a son, it is enough now, a son is enough._ But for some reason unknown to him he still felt a loss, in his heart he felt an emptiness he never knew amplified. In his mind he had imagined him an old man, a King with his Queen by his side, surrounded by all their loving silver haired children. _A son is enough_ , he told himself.  
"Can I see her?" He put a hand tentatively on the door, not even sure if he himself wanted to go in. The maester eyed his hand cautiously and nodded slowly.  
"Yes your grace. But she is frail, give her time." He pushed the door slowly open and it squeaked on its hinges. In a pile by the door seemed dozens of red, wet sheets that glistened menacingly as he walked past. Fewer septas now meandered about the room, cleaning and bustling around the bed. _Elia, wonderful, brave Elia_. She sat swaddled in a blanket her skin a palest yellow, purple circles under her eyes and her dark hair wild. But in her arms, at her breast, a flash of silver hair.  
"Leave us." The septa's stopped their duties and filed from the room, the last letting the door click behind her. "Elia." He smiled as if he had never smiled and she looked up feebly, giving him a crooked smile of her own.  
"A boy, a prince." Her breath was still ragged and she lowered her cracked lips to the babe's head. "He is your son, he looks so like you." She beckoned him forward and he took the few steps toward her, standing beside them both. He was so small, so strange, Rhaegar could barely believe hours ago he did not exist. "What will we call our son, my love?" She asked but he already knew.  
"Aegon."  
"Aegon." She breathed her gaze on the baby, who opened his eyes sleepily. Purple eyes.  
"What better name for a king?" For Aegon the Conqueror, the truest of dragons, the mightiest of Kings. _And you will be a King, my son. My Aegon._  
"Will you write him a song? A sweet song for our sweet son?" Rhaegar reached out a hand and ran a soft finger over the prince's cheek, soft and warm. He shook his head.  
"He is the Prince that was Promised," He said and he knew that this tiny child, nothing more than a screaming bawling mass of bones and flesh would grow into the man, a great man with a flaming sword who would deliver them from the frozen dark. Their fiery saviour. "And his is the song of ice and fire."


	11. Lyanna

The mighty fortress of Storm's End sat on the edge of a great outthrust of rock that reached out into the sea.  
The walls, a hundred feet high and eighty feet deep kept the harsh winds and raging rains from the castle and the very stone they were built from is said to be enchanted with ancient spells that guard the keep and those within. An impenetrable castle, not even the sly wind could find purchase against the walls and when the gates were barred the only way in was to scale the fifty and a hundred feet drop to the ocean below. A group of men on horseback were galloping towards them, the thundering of hooves on the earth growing louder. Lyanna wriggled uncomfortably in her saddle, she was an excellent rider but she was sore from the days ride. When she was younger she had visited Brandon in Barrowton, he had taken her to The Rills, where they bred great war horses for the lords of the North. They would ride through the rolling hills, the Lord Ryswell's pretty daughter at their side. She was sharp and shrewd, but Lyanna liked her, she had a crude wit which amused them both and she was certain Brandon and Lady Barbery were a little more than fond of each other. The riders were before them now, slowing their mounts. The rider in front wore the Baratheon colours, yellow and black. He had a hard face with sharp cheekbones and cropped black hair. Stannis, this must be the Lord's brother. Though barely shy of a year apart there seemed no resemblance between the two Baratheon brothers.  
"Stannis, you needn't have ridden out." Robert called out beside her, a slight cold edge to his voice, an edge he had never used with her.  
"My Lord brother has returned home, I wished to show my... _joy_." He said, his voice flat and monotonous. There seemed little joy in Stannis's heart, even less in his eyes. She wondered if he'd ever done anything joyfully. The sides of Robert's mouth twitched as if he were to laugh and it made Lyanna smile, bowing her head to conceal it.  
"This is the Lady Lyanna Stark, brother. My bride to be." He gazed at her with his sparkling sapphire eyes and it almost made Lyanna blush.  
"My lady." He said curtly, bowing his head slightly to her. "Word of your beauty has carried even this far south."  
"You are too kind ser." Though she doubted he even thought her beautiful, or anyone for that matter. She wondered if any passion stirred anywhere beneath those cold eyes, or between those cold thighs.  
"I hear you were crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty my lady." Stannis's raised arched an eyebrow as he spoke with cool distain. She did not like what he implied with that eyebrow. _Maybe I'll cut it off_ , she thought. His steely gaze met hers and she felt as though he had been a watcher in the shadows, concealed behind every wall and he knew.  
"Aye, I was." she replied icily.  
"By our dragon prince if I am not mistaken." The eyebrow arched a little higher.  
"You are not." _He does not know, he does not know, he does not know_. He opened his mouth to speak again but his lord brother leant forward, slapping his brother on the back so hard he jolted.  
"Let's not talk of anymore nonsense. The prince only sees what any blind man does, the fairness of my dear Lyanna." Robert took her hand and lent in his saddle, touching his lips to it, his stubble brushing her roughly and Stannis's mouth set in a hard line. "Now to the castle, I am bloody frozen." His brother brushed past him and as she looked over her shoulder Stannis sat, rigid on the back of his grey palfrey framed by sweeping hills of the Storm Land, its sky blackening above him. "Let us find my other brother, he's probably better conversation. A great deal more bloody amusing than Stannis." she smiled politely as she dragged her gaze from Stannis Baratheon. _Trouble. Trouble is what I sense in him._ The keep loomed ever closer and the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs was almost deafening, they threw themselves into the rock, straining for the earth. The wind blew from the sea and swirled around them, the sound of it filling her ears, her hair flying about her. She looked towards the sky and a solitary bird caught the swelling breeze north and floated onwards, upwards. She wished she were a bird, to carry her home or just away. _Away would do._ Her horse trotted beneath her and it took all her might to not wheel it about and gallop across the land into the distance. _Where would I go?,_ she thought. _To Rhaegar_. There was no other place, not really. She had tried to ignore the lump in her throat as she watched him ride away, until he was but a speck on the hazy horizon. They had ridden since that day, Lord Connington and his squire by their side, Lord Robert's squire Lyonel Bolling, a young son of one of Robert's bannermen. He rode beside her now trying to keep his sandy curls from his eyes as they rode. The gates loomed up, opened for the return of their Lord and she felt her eyes prickle. This was the end. She was sealing her own fate by passing through the gates. The sound of hooves clattered loudly as they passed under the stone walls, they pressed down on her as if they were about to crumble above her. She breathed deeply, the cold air sharp in her chest. As she was helped to dismount a young child was brought forward, dressed in his finest emerald tunic. Renly Baratheon was the youngest brother of Lord Robert, with a mass of black waves and the same startlingly blue eyes, he bowed deeply to her and Robert ruffled his hair fondly before moving along to present her to his other bannermen. She looked up at the castle around her, her home, her prison. As Lyanna sat in the great round hall, she did not feel safe, the thick walls and heavy gates only made her feel trapped. The wind was never ceasing, whining and battering, like a dog that had been put out trying to find any way back in. She looked out at the gloomy slate grey sky and knew out there, the sea swirled angrily beneath it. She could not remember how she had gotten to this seat, in this hall. She looked to the windows and the sky beyond was black, starless. _How much time has passed?_ She looked around her, at people she did not know, all but a few familiar faces. She sat between Robert and Stannis, one drunk, the other sullen. _Has there ever been a pair of brothers less alike?_ Almost in every way they differed, where Stannis was cold and hard in appearance, Robert was muscle and warmth. In place of Roberts smile was his brother's scowl. The fiery haired Lord Connington sat on the other side of the Storm Lord, his golden griffin shining on his chest and Renly along from him, picking at his food boredly. _I am alone_. She raised one finger to run along her lower lip, feeling the ridges and wrinkles, remembering the feel of another's on her own, the warmth. _Where are you now? Do you think of me still?_ Lord Robert laughed loudly and she felt guilt flood through her. _T_ _his is my fate, this is what I chose and the old gods will forgive my sins. I have done no wrong_ , she told herself. She closed her eyes and heard her heart beat in her ears; she saw Rhaegar's eyes, a deep purple stare. The wind roared outside, a storm brewing on the ocean. She prayed silently. _Let it be strong enough to carry me away, strong enough to wash me out with the tide._

"Master Renly, tell me; which of the Houses has a sword and falling star on a background of lavender as its sigil?" Asked Maester Cressen. The maester of Storm's End was plump and jolly, with his gleaming chain rested on his ample chest, his robes stretched across a large belly that jiggled when he ran. He could be seen running after the little lordling Renly almost every day, it was a wonder to Lyanna that he didn't lose any weight; he must be very committed to being fat. Renly was in his lesson with the maester and had demanded that Lyanna join him, he had taken quite a shine to her and her for him, and he seemed the only one in the castle with any warmth- apart from the Storm Lord himself. Robert spent most his days seeing to his bannermen, practicing with his hammer or drinking, she saw him at every meal where he would be his usual loud, humorous, handsome self and drink his fill. She liked him least when he was drunk. One night he had knocked on the door of her chamber when the moon was high in the sky and when she had opened the door he had stood, leaning against the door frame, his black curls a mess and his eyes unfocused. He had slurred something at her and then lurched forward. His mouth had caught hers and he tasted like wine and ale. His short beard had felt coarse against her smooth skin and his tongue too forceful in her mouth. They were not the kisses she had felt before, gentle but passionate, the kind of kisses that caused her blood to boil and the kind one found oneself daydreaming about long since they had finished. She had pushed him away and barred the door behind him. He had banged on the wood endlessly before he gave up and he seemed to remember none of it the following day. _Rhaegar's kisses were sweeter_ , she thought.  
"House Dayne." Said Renly bored, swinging his legs under the table. He was dressed in a green velvet tunic with the stag of House Baratheon sowed on it in golden thread.  
"Very good Renly." Said the maester, clapping his chubby hands together. Renly was only five but seemed to have charmed every man and woman, be them high born or low in the castle. It seemed that when the late Lord Steffon Baratheon and his wife had perished those in the castle took it upon them to raise the babe, Robert had a great fondness for children she had found but even with his own brother he quickly grew bored of the responsibility caring for a child could bring. "One more, one more little master then you may go." The maester tapped his podgy finger to his chin thoughtfully. "A more difficult one perhaps... Any thoughts Lady Lyanna?" Lyanna turned to look at him, having been lost in thought, her gaze drawn the darkening sky.  
"Erm... ah, I know. Which house takes a lizard-lion for their sigil? Black on moss green." Renly's look of confidence faltered slightly as he tried to recall the house.  
"Oh I don't know!" he said frustrated, crossing his arms. She smiled at him.  
"House Reed take a black lizard-lion as their sigil, their words are _Blood of the Earth_. They are my father's bannermen and their castle of Greywater Watch is said to _move_."  
"Move?" whispered Renly wide-eyed. She nodded.  
"The Crannogmen are mysterious and cautious people who wait in the marshes..." She reached a hand forward and grabbed his sides, making him squeal. "And jump out at those brave knights who pass by." He giggled gleefully and she left soon after to leave him to his studies and she wandered about the castle aimlessly. The wind seemed to constantly be howling, throwing itself against the rock from the sea, some nights it was so loud she could not sleep, she would sit up and stare into the blackness wondering if Rhaegar ever did the same. The stone corridor lead her to a set of steps which she followed, the sound of steel on steel caught her attention. She found herself in a stone cobbled courtyard, along the walls ivy climbed, clinging to the rock, covering everything. Two knights in full armour, one with a giant war hammer, its head heavy steel and the opposite side a long thick spike. Lord Baratheon, stood towering over his opponent, broad, muscular and furious. She watched them fight from the shadows, every so often they would shout insults to one another, urging the other to be a little more reckless, to expose himself to attack. The knight she did not know held a longsword as big as him, wielding it about him with great skill. As she stepped from the shade of the stone archway the wind bit at her face and she pulled her fur trimmed cloak about her shoulders. Though it was colder in the North, with summer snows and frost, it was the Stormland's wind that kept her chilly here. Robert raised his hammer again and seemed to catch the sight of her, leaning against the wall watching and he stopped rather comically, hammer still raised high.  
"My lady." He called removing his helm. His black hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat and his cheeks were reddened from the duel. The knight with his back to her turned and bowed, removing his helm too. He had a red beard and hair with a long face, he too was breathless and sweating. "This is Ser Cortnay Penrose, a bannerman and friend."  
"A pleasure to meet you Ser Cortnay."  
"The pleasure is mine my lady. My lord speaks often of your fairness but no words will do it justice."  
"Thank you ser, you are kind." She felt a hot flush creep up her neck as she always did when any man gave her such flattery.  
"Leave us Cortnay, we are done for this day."  
"Tomorrow then my lord." Ser Cortnay said, bowing his head.  
"Tomorrow." Robert nodded and the knight sheathed his sword, his helm under his arm clinked away and through the archway Lyanna had come from. He looked her hand in his gloved own and led her to a stone bench, he sat heavily, placing the hammer on the ground beside them. "So how did I do my lady?"  
"Well my lord. A war hammer is a formidable weapon, I have been told."  
"By your brothers no doubt." He chuckled.  
"My brothers, yes. Though they rarely spoke of such things." _Lies, they spoke of cruder things than war._ "I am a lady, they spared me that talk." He arched an eyebrow.  
"Even Brandon?" She smiled and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.  
"Well, maybe not Brandon. He was never very good at treating me like a lady." She suddenly felt very empty, she had forgotten what it was to be with her brothers. For their jests and affection, she had been so consumed with her thoughts of Rhaegar she had almost forgotten that she had left them behind too. She looked down at her knees guiltily.  
"You miss them, do you not Lyanna? You have been so solemn since we left Harrenhal, all that time ago. I do not want to see you suffer." He placed a gloved finger on her cheek, brushing her skin with the leather, "I have only love in my heart for you." She stared at him, he was kind, and he was honest. He was a better man than most, it was not a tragedy she was to marry him. If it weren't that her heart already belonged to another she might have let it be his. She forced a smile.  
"And I only have love for you my lord." She lied, "But yes, I miss my brothers."  
"Ser Brandon is to marry Lady Catelyn Tully and I have had an invitation from the Lord of Riverrun to attend their wedding. I cannot go but maybe... maybe you can. If you wish." She smiled truly now, she felt her face light up and Robert beamed in response.  
"Yes, yes, thank you."  
"Anything, for you Lyanna." His gloved finger still lingered on her cheek and he leaned forward his lips catching hers. His stubble was coarse against her face and he smelled of sweat. She backed away suddenly, rising from the bench. She looked warily about the stone courtyard, they were betrothed it was not against any laws that they mustn't touch or kiss, it was only she did not want to. Drunk or sober he was not the man she wanted and he stared at her now, hurt.  
"We must not. Not before the wedding my lord." He sighed, pushing his curls from his damp brow.  
"I will wait, my lady. For you." She nodded and turned on her heel to walk back up the steps she had descended down. She quickly put the courtyard behind her and when she reached her chamber slammed the door shut. She ran to the basin of water beside the window and washed her mouth, gulping the water and spitting in out. _It was not that bad_ , she thought, _it just wasn't him._ Gulls screamed at one another over the ocean outside her window and she watched the sun fall beyond the horizon, the sky turning a dusky pink streaked with orange. The crescent moon was already high in the sky, pale, and a shadow. She watched it turn, night after night. Crescent, half moon, full moon, new moon, crescent, half moon, full moon, new moon, crescent. Time stood still and flew by and all she knew for certain was that the moon turned.

The great round hall of Storm's End was almost empty as they ate pork roasted slowly with apples and drank a fine crisp Arbor gold. Lord Robert sat in his lord's chair with Stannis, cold as the wind beside him and the maester in his grey robes, chain clinking softly sat between Lyanna and Robert. Renly was heavy-lidded and every so often his head drooped in sleep before he shook it and woke himself.  
"There has been word from one of the ships from King's Landing." Maester Cressen said, alleviating their silence. Stannis's eyes only flickered towards the maester and Robert only looked from his food for an instant.  
"Oh?" Lyanna said, attempting to feign indifference. She had been trying to ask for news of the Prince since their parting but it was difficult to ask questions that did not raise their own.  
"It seems that Princess Elia is with child, is that not wonderful news my lord?" Maester Cressen smiled broadly, his cracked front tooth exposed. Lyanna stopped eating, mid mouthful. Elia was with child. _There is no other, not even my wife, only you_ , the words came drifting back to her. The night before the King was to depart Rhaegar had come to her, deep in the dark of the godswood, none of the southron lords kept the old gods and so they were alone. They had held one another in silence, not knowing the words to say their farewell, her head rested on his chest and his cheek pressed against her hair.  
"Do not forget me." She had whispered. She felt like a child, afraid and helpless.  
 _"Never, my lady."_ She had raised her head to look at him, to see in his eyes that his words were true. _"Even if the gods are cruel enough to keep us apart forever, I will remember."_ His hand was under her chin, tilting her face up to his. _"I will remember this."_ He kissed her deeply, his skin was warm and his mouth pressed against hers desperately as if it were the last time.  
"Must we do our duty? What honour is there in lying beside a man I do not love?" Rhaegar pursed his lips and a small crease appeared between his brows.  
 _"None. But duty binds us to our families, there is honour in that."_ She stepped away from him, the hour was late and she knew that leaving him was her inescapable doom. He did not try and pull her back with his strong arms or kiss her, he only watched her take another step back.  
"Well, goodbye, your grace." Her voice had a slight tremor to it and she wanted to stare at him, drink every inch of him in, and have the image of him imprinted in her mind. He didn't not return her farewell, so she turned and began to walk , her chest felt constricted as though a great weight rested there.  
 _"There is no other, my lady."_ He had called after her. _"Not even my wife. Only you."  
_ She looked up from her plate to the maester.  
"I suppose it is, send my well wishes to my princely cousin Maester. Let him know my prayers are for a boy." Lyanna saw Rhaegar holding a baby in her mind, with silvery hair and his deep purple eyes, but it was not the Dornish princess by his side, it was her and the boy was their own, born of their blood. It could not be, it could never be. She would live to birth children black of hair and be buried in a stormy grave.  
"When is the child due to be born Maester?" Lord Robert asked lightly.  
"Within the moons turn I believe, though it may be less my lord." She had been at Storm's End for one and ten turns of the moon, which meant... The child was conceived after the tourney, after his words, after his promise.  
"My lord may I retire to my chambers?" she said suddenly. She felt the tightness rising in her throat and her eyes became glassy with tears. She knew she would cry but not here, not now. _I am a wolf of the North, wolves do not cry._ Robert turned his head to look at her quizzically, his black curls bouncing as he did. Stannis stared on with steely disinterest and Renly was absorbed by his meal beside her.  
"Are you not well Lyanna?" he asked, his piercingly blue eyes watching her, taking her hand in his.  
"No, no my love. I am only tired; I shall bid you all goodnight and see you tomorrow." She rose, untangling his hand from hers and departed the room. As the door closed behind her she walked quickly along the corridor, feeling the sadness welling up inside her. Rhaegar had forgotten her, he had promised that he would not. Maybe Robert was a better man than she thought, a man who did not lie and show false emotion was better than one who did. Though those deep purple eyes, they had seemed so sincere, honest. She had been fooled and she felt foolish. To the prince it seemed only a farce to play with her emotions like a child does a doll, make her care for him and then return to his life as if she had never existed, it was not that way for her. And now in this gods forsaken place, with the storms swelling around her and the waves crashing at the walls ferociously, so far from home, from the North, she had never felt more alone, more lost.

The fog rolled in across the bay as the sun rose. She mounted her horse early, though she had barely slept. Every time she drifted off she woke again, the creaking of the castle or the whistling of the wind would startle her. She had gotten up to sit at the dressing table in front of the window, staring at her reflection in the long ornate mirror, the maester had said it belonged to Robert's mother, before she was swallowed by the stormy depths along with his father. She was glad to be putting the castle behind her, even if she must return. She was riding to Brandon and nothing would make her happier. The morning was damp and the fog crept through the walls filling the gate yard like fire smoke. Robert stood solemnly watching her, his brothers beside him.  
"Keep her safe Ser Cortnay. I'll have your head if you don't." Called Robert with a hint of a smile.  
"On my life my lord." The knight nodded to his lord. Another knight, dressed in his finery, a little fairer than Ser Cortnay sat in the saddle of a chestnut mare beside her. Ser Colen of Greenpools. She had protested profusely, that it was ludicrous for her to need an escort of two seasoned knights just to travel up the Kingsroad, she apologised to both for wasting their time. Ser Colen only chuckled and said " _If I did not escort you how would I drink all of Lord Hosters wine and eat all his fine food?"_. Lord Robert walked towards her and took her hand, which was gripping the reins, placing his lips on them.  
"Be safe Lyanna, my love." She flushed, she had found she did not enjoy these open show of affection, they made her squirm uncomfortably.  
"I will be fine my lord, I have two knights, more than enough protection from the Kingsroad." He grinned, but it did not reach his blue eyes. _He is heart-broken to see me go_ , she thought _. Do not be sad Robert, for I am not sad to leave you_. She looked away from him guiltily and turned her horse, kicking her heels into him and galloping out the gates. Soon the mist swallowed the castle behind them as if it never existed. Slowly with every hoof beat, with every league, she felt the heavy weight that had rested on her chest rise and with the wind whipping past her she felt free again.

They had ridden hard since dawn and servants had erected the tents for each of the men and for her. A great fire had bloomed in the centre and the smell of roasting meat floated through the camp. Laughter could be heard in the distance. They travelled the Kingsroad as far as the Red Fork where they would turn and follow the river to Riverrun. She walked alone to her tent its silky grey hangings fluttered in the light breeze and she noted how each day had grown warmer and warmer the further south they travelled. Robert had insisted she take a handmaid and the young girl Rayna had chosen to follow her everywhere like a dog without a master. She had to sneak away from her just to be alone sometimes, a thing she always felt guilty about when she would see the girl wandering lost without her. As she entered the makeshift chamber she noticed the candles had been extinguished and the warm glow that was emitted from the tents around hers was not within her own. She peered around the darker unfamiliar room suspiciously and a tremble deep within her stomach told her something was amiss. She walked towards a table and felt along the surface blindly for a match and lit the nearest candle clumsily. The dim glow filled the room with orange light throwing her shadow across the pale hangings. Her trunk had been thrown open in haste and her possessions had been emptied on the floor. Dresses and smallclothes lay strewn across the bed and carpet with ornaments askew on tables and a broken wine glass lay in pieces beside her foot. Lyanna instinctively ran across the room and scrambled through her half empty trunk and popped open the hollow bottom to reveal a hidden compartment below. Her brother Brandon had given her the sword on her sixteenth name day; he had come into her room at the wolfing hour and placed it in her hands. _I will teach you use it better; just don't tell father_ he had whispered kissing her forehead. they had stolen away to the woods outside of Winterfell as often as they could and they practiced until her hands blistered but the clashing of steel had been the sweet song she had never heard and the weight of a sword the hand of a lover she had never held. Herhand curled around the cold silver hilt of her sword and she unsheathed it in one smooth motion and stood facing the darkness, the steel glinting stealthily in the flickering light. A corner of the tent stood still in shadow despite the candle and from the corner of her eye, the shadow itself stirred. She lunged toward it and a cloaked figure came within sight, taller than herself and broad chested, the stranger made no move to defend himself and she thrust her sword up and rested the point against his throat.  
"Who are you? What do you want?" When he didn't answer she urged the sword slightly forward and felt the skin pierce and the man sucked a breath inward at the pain. "Tell me who you are or I will cut your throat." He chuckled, the sound was familiar but her heart beat against her chest and her ears echoed with the sound. She reached up her other hand that looked ghostly pale in the dark and pulled back the dark hood from his face. Dark hair caught the light and his indigo eyes danced for a moment in the glow. She dropped her sword and it clattered to the ground noisily as he smiled a dazzling smile. She took a step toward him, this time with desire and he clung to her, his arms wrapping tights around her. They wandered down her back, pushing her closer to him. Then she remembered her fear at the dark stranger, the nights she had sat alone and silent in Storm's End, the news of his son. She took a step away, the smile slowly fading from her face.  
"Your hair, it's-."  
"Brown I know, I feared silver was too recognisable." He said, smiling still. The dark hair only made his eyes brighter, his skin seem more golden.  
"You scared me, I could have killed you." She said, studying the ground. She had imagining them reuniting, dreamed of it, the joy of the moment. But he stood before her now, beautiful as ever and she felt anger boiling in her blood.  
"You could have tried." He smirked. _He had a son, he has a son now_ , the cold voice in her head whispered.  
"Why are you here?" She knew her voice had turned to ice and she looked over her shoulder to the tent opening half expecting to see the Storm Lord to be there, sword drawn but he was leagues away in his castle probably fast asleep or drunk. He looked at her with a disappointed expression.  
"I watched you ride away, not knowing if I would see you again. If I did you would be married, probably with child. I could not bear it. The thought of you with him... tell me it is not the fate you desire and I will save you from it." He lowered his head and his words were full of sorrow. It was not the fate she desired, a life of rough kisses that tasted of wine.  
"I cannot leave, I am to marry Robert in a month." He shook his silver head in disgust.  
"Then I will take you, against your will if I must. I am the prince. You would not break a princes heart." He a warrior, a ferocious fighter but his tender heart took her unawares. She saw his sorrow and wanted to hold him, wash it away somehow, anyhow but she thought of his wife waiting alone for him to return, his son at her breast. A son that might never know his father if they boarded some boat across the Narrow Sea or rode away into the wilderness.  
"What about your wife? What of your son?" His face hardened slightly, the muscle in his jaw clenching.  
"You heard of Aegon?" he asked guiltily.  
"Of course I did. You are the prince, everyone in Westoros heard."  
"I did my duty Lyanna, I must have a son. I thought of you." Though he thought it a compliment it made her feel sick, that he was in Elia, thinking of her.  
"Save me your falsehood Rhaegar. I do not need your sweet words to soften such a blow." He looked at her hurt, clearly this was not what he had envisioned, though it was not her vision either. In her dreams she had held him, kissed him and he had flown her away from Storm's End on a golden dragon, but it was only a dream. "I was alone for a year and you, you were having children and a family and all I could imagine was you with her. You left me as if I was nothing. You forgot me." All the sadness she had kept hidden, the words she had not dared say aloud came pouring out and they hung in the air, the heavy weight of the truth made her voice crack. He stepped towards her, taking her face in his hands.  
"I did not forget you my sweet Lyanna, I could never forget you. I love you." He had never said it before, though she knew she had loved him for so long, the moment they had parted and she felt that inescapable sorrow she knew. She ignored him, she could not let her woes go unanswered.  
"Did you not claim you loved Elia once? Did you not claim it to your gods at Baelor's sept?"  
"I have never loved her Lyanna, only cared for her. You are the only one I have ever, will ever give my heart to." She pulled away and turned her back to him, the room behind her was a mess and she stared at her clothes thrown across the grassy floor.  
"You've left her alone, with two young children. _Your_ children."  
"Do not think it does not pain me my lady. But I would leave them forever and never turn back if you asked it of me." She shook her head this time.  
"I will not do that." She said bluntly.  
"Come with me." He held out his hands to her, pleading. "Come with me and we can be together."She ran her hand through her hair exasperated. She felt as though she was being torn in two, part of her wanted to lock him out of her mind, never see him again and forget this foolish dream had ever been dreamt. The other wanted to kiss every inch of him, run with him wherever he would go and not look back. She remembered something her father had said when she was little and pretended to run away. _We cannot run from ourselves Lyanna. When you run, your troubles run beside you._  
"Where? There is nowhere we can hide, they will find us. Be it your father, my brothers, Robert, they will scour this realm until no stone is left unturned."  
"There are many stones in Westoros." He smiled his pearly smile. "It could take years. Years with you, whether it is only one or a hundred, is better than no time at all." She could not go, what would her father say? Her brothers? She looked at him now, this man who had travelled leagues just to be with her, to steal her away in the night and love her. The alternative was returning to Storm's End and being a bird trapped in a stone cage forever.  
"Let us go then." She whispered breathlessly. He beamed and kissed her again, his hand on her waist. As they broke apart she looked around the room for things she must take with her.  
"I've already seen to your things, they are ready."  
"How did you know I would agree?"  
"I have my ways my love." Rhaegar gave her a loving smile as he held out a hand for her to take and with the other held the gap of the tent open to the night. He led her back round the tent and through the servant's quarters around them but little attention was paid to them, the camp was empty and they were strangers in the dark. The camp stood at the edge of a forest on the Kingsroad and it was the trees that Rhaegar led her into. Tied to a thick knarled tree trunk stood a great black stallion that he had ridden at Harrenhall stamping his feet and snorting impatiently at the sound of their footfall. She noticed her bag had been tied around the horse and it must have contained the clothes that Rhaegar had sorted through earlier. There was only one horse she noticed; though she would have preferred to ride her own she knew she must ride with him, clinging on. He stroked the destrier's soft nose whispering to him words she could not hear. He turned and lifted her from the waist onto the horse and then mounted himself behind her; he wrapped his arms around her as he held the reins, kissing the top of her head, she looked around at the outline of his face in the dark.  
"We'll ride at night and rest during the day. There are many eyes on the road." She nodded silently again and he cocked his head and looked at her with quizzical purple eyes. "This is what you want?" She didn't answer, only looking back through the trees into the glow of the camp beyond them. The trees lay the fate she had always thought she would have, her family and the life she had always known. To stay here, in the dark with Rhaegar was to abandon all that, she did not know if she would see her brothers again or her father or Winterfell, the only home she had ever known. _Two paths lay before me_ she thought. In her mind's eye she saw herself getting down from the saddle, bidding Rhaegar a heartbreaking farewell and marrying Robert Baratheon. Living her days as the Lady of Storms End and watching black haired, blue eyed children play along the rocky shores, lying next to her husband and dreaming of her prince, of silver haired children and the lullabies he would sing to them as they slept. It was the path she should take she thought. _This is a foolish dream_. But as she rode off into the night with her heart beating furiously, Rhaegar's strong arms either side of her, it was not that path she took. It was an unknown path that even she did not know the direction it would take.


	12. The Wild Wolf's Servant

The fire spluttered to life as he lit the wood with a match, smoke beginning to rise up in the frosty air.  
He had searched since dawn to find wood that wasn't damp and ventured further into the dark forest they rested beside than he would have liked. He heard the howling of wolves in the night and when he walked deeper, the leaves crunching deafeningly underfoot he felt his skin prickle as if a pair of eyes watched him from a concealed shadow. He blew on the fire now to get it started and it soon engulfed the wood, crackling happily. He warmed his hands in front of it enjoying the moment's peace. They were a few days south of the Northern border and though none of them admitted it, they were more than glad to be clear of the Neck. The bogs and marshes held no comfort, no inns or whorehouses. Only mist and hidden danger. Snakes the colour of bone slithered in and out of the mud, meandering through the murky water. Hidden in the depths of the blackness were ash coloured lizard lions, which only slipped into the water expectantly as they passed, their teeth visible in their knowing smiles. At night their eyes reflected across the water and they seemed to get closer and closer. The torso of a man floated in one of the many lakes and when Brandon reached out with his sword to poke it, a great hiss of the creatures went up and they soon recoiled back to the road. There were more pleasant sights on their journey, the rolling hills of the North, the morning spring frost. They had stopped at Barrowton to rest, a slight detour at the insistence of Ser Brandon. He had been fostered there before Ethan knew him and though he could not imagine Brandon anything less than a man. He imagined he had jumped from the womb armoured, sword in hand. The Lord Rywell's daughter happened to be visiting but even Ethan knew it was not mere coincidence. He had sat outside Ser Brandon's room and heard them talk deep into the night, he heard them kiss, and he heard her squeal and scream as Brandon took her. He guiltily felt the stirrings in his own breeches and the feeling of jealously he always seemed to feel about his fairer friends. He heard the lady cry when they were done and beg him not to leave her. _"Marry me instead Bran. I love you, I've always loved you."  
_ " _You know we cannot."_ He did not say he loved her too, though Ethan thought he did. When he told her he had no love for Lady Catelyn, that he didn't want to marry her at all it seemed to make the lady sadder still. Ethan was half asleep, slumped against the stone wall when the door finally creaked open and Brandon emerged, disshelved in the corridor. Ethan kept his eyes closed as the lady called out to him.  
 _"We were meant to be Brandon. The gods, they made us for one another."_ Ethan heard the crack in her voice.  
 _"I know."_ Brandon said and he closed the door behind him with a soft _click_. Ethan lifted his eyelids a fraction and Brandon stood with his eyes shut, his hands clasped in prayer, he took a deep breath then strode down the dark hallway, out of sight.

Ethan lay back on the cold hard earth, the mud beneath him already beginning to thaw. The fire crackled merrily still and he wrapped the blankets tighter round his neck, feeling the rough-spun wool against his skin. He stared up at the endless dark sky. Only the faintest of glimmers in the west, an orange glow beyond the horizon. The sky was moonless but the stars were still bright in the dark ocean above. One in particular winked at him. _The gods are truly wondrous_ , he thought.  
"I still cannot believe you asked Old Nan about the size my cock." Said Ser Kyle sharpening his sword lazily.  
"Or the lack of it." Ser Elbert said with a snort.  
"I thought she was going to beat us all with that old stick of hers," laughed Brandon. Ethan envied their friendly jests, he wished he would be invited into them but he knew he was a squire and though in private Ser Brandon would treat him like more of a friend, in the presence of his kinsmen he was merely a servant. "Still gave Ben a good laugh, he hadn't laughed since-" His words faltered and stared down at his hands, deep in thought suddenly.  
"What I wouldn't give for more of that Barrowton ale, whatever we've got left tastes like piss." Ser Elbert said, scrunching up his face in disgust as he swigged from a bottle.  
"Depending on which bottle, it might be." Elbert spat it out, spraying it over Ser Jeffory and throwing the bottle at Ser Kyle. "What I miss more was that golden haired whore, what was her name? Cara? Or Lara? The things that girl could do with her mouth..." he mused, "Like a whore from Lys she was."  
"A whore from Lys in Barrowton? I fucking doubt it." Said Ser Jeffory. Hooves thundered across the earth, galloping closer and closer. It was not uncommon for riders who did not wish to be seen to take the road at night but he saw Ser Kyle brush a finger warily over the hilt of his sword and Ser Brandon looked around to see the traveller. A man, maybe older than Ser Brandon came into view and he looked around at them wildly. His hair was unkempt and matted, his armour seemed to weigh him down and dark circles ringed his eyes, he had been riding for days it seemed. His stubble had turned into a thick beard and his once fair face was drawn with fatigue. He spied Ser Brandon's horse whose saddle was embossed with the direwolf of House Stark and his weary eyes widened. He almost fell from his horse as he dismounted and Ethan jumped up to grab his sharp elbow to stop him from hitting the ground.  
"I'm seeking Brandon Stark, please I must find him," He said breathlessly "And I have urgent news." Ser Brandon stood, stepping from beside the fire and toward the man.  
"Then seek no more ser, you have found him. What is this urgent news you speak of?" The man looked around at their faces and eyed the others warily.  
"I think it best to be spoken in private ser, it is not for other ears."  
"These are my kinsmen what is mine is theirs and what I know they shall know too. You have ridden hard let it not be in vain, tell me what you came to tell."  
"It is your sister ser, she has.. She has been taken." He seemed to compose himself slightly, as if he remembered why he had ridden so hard.  
"Lyanna.. Taken?" Brandon sounded dumbfounded.  
"Stolen in the night ser, by a cloaked man."  
"What? I do not understand, why was she not guarded?" He demanded furiously.  
"It was the dead of the night, our camp was quiet we did not think-"  
"Who took her, where is my sister?" said Brandon, cutting across his weak excuse.  
"I do not know where Lady Lyanna has been taken ser but as for the man..." He looked around at them again warily as if he did not wish to speak. "Her handmaid _swears_ she said a name. She was heard to call him...To call him..." His voice dropped almost to a whisper. "Rhaegar." Ethan's mouth dropped open. The whispered word hung in air, it crackled between them. He looked Ser Brandon, whose eyes and turned to steel and his jaw had set in wrath.  
"Rhaegar." He hissed the word, malice seemed to drip from like poison.  
"We must turn back for-" Ser Elbert started but Brandon held up a hand to stop him, his face stony.  
"You have done well ser but I must ask more from you." Brandon's voice was low and Ethan could sense the anger that bubbled beneath the surface, like a wild animal that had been caged, it made the hairs on his neck stand. "Once you have rested, you must ride to Winterfell and relay this news to my Lord father, do not speak to others of this on your way. Tell him to call our banners, tell him his heir rides for King's Landing." The knight nodded and Ethan passed him the blanket he had recently been wrapped in. Ser Brandon turned grabbed the reins of his horse, untying him from the branch he was tethered to and mounted in one swift movement. In all his fury, on horseback, in his house colours he seemed more a warrior than Ethan had ever seen him. "I will not ask you to come with me for I cannot guarantee your return. But If I must spill every drop of Targaryen blood to put a sword through that dragon _fuckers_ heart I will do it. For Lyanna." He turned his palfrey and cantered along the road, his cloak billowing behind him, they left the knight standing, weary and alone beside their fire. His men turned to look at one another and quickly did the same. Ethan watched them go, wondering if he should follow. _No, he is my friend and I shall follow him_. He repeated those words to himself over and over as he galloped after them, the Kingsroad disappearing under him.

A silence seemed to descend over them as they rode. Not one was disloyal enough to turn back but each one thought of it. Ethan found himself feeling nauseous after every meal, the thought of Prince Rhaegar's longsword never far from his mind. He had never had much training in swordsmanship but he supposed if they were arrested for treason it would make little difference. _It is treason what we seek to do_ , he told himself. _To murder your prince, it is against the gods. The gods are forgiving, they will forgive me if I pray_. He supposed he wouldn't be the one drawing swords or spilling blood so he was innocent in the Mothers eyes. Ser Brandon barely spoke since the night they left the storm knight by the fire and his friends only whispered and never in his presence.  
"This is madness, we surely ride to our death." A voice muttered in the dark as Ethan brushed Ser Brandon's horse.  
"He has stolen Lady Lyanna, who knows what he's done to her? Raped her, killed her... It's enough to send a man wild."  
"Brandon _is_ wild, can you not sense it? A wild wolf he has become." the voice had a point. Brandon sat alone, rode alone, and ate alone. Even his company made Ethan's stomach turn. Rage seemed to seep from every pore of his skin, it poured from him a feral, unpredictable emotion. Ethan would never admit it but he was scared of Brandon, he had not looked him in the eyes in over two weeks. The Riverlands rolled by and soon they crossed into the Crownlands. _They should be at Riverrun, they should be attending a wedding_. One of the only times Brandon had spoken was to send word to Lady Catelyn of his sisters kidnap and how he must postpone their wedding. He said it flatly and the old man delivering the message had to lean in as the words were barely audible.

King's Landing with the Red Keep high on Aegon's hill rose out of the ground as if the gods had thrust it from the earth. Ethan had never seen it before, the home of the Kings. The weather seemed to chill him to the bone, though the false spring was milder in the south than the frost of the North. Brandon rode forward, only checking behind him to make sure they were still there, as if he truly thought they would all wheel their horses about and gallop home, tail between their legs like a scared bitch. _Whatever I fear, whatever trials lay before me, and I will stand beside him. My master, my lord, my friend_. The air was cold as they passed through the heavy gates as they were to be closed for the night and Brandon's rage seemed to crackle through it, causing the hairs in his neck to stand. Now they had arrived the wrath he had tried to keep wrapped in silence seemed to be peeking through the surface. People screamed as he galloped through King's Landing, scattering their possessions and throwing themselves from his path. Ethan squeezed his horse's flanks tightly to keep up. The ornate solid oak gate to the Red Keep, with its giant rusted hinges was closed for the night and Ser Brandon skidded to a halt in front of it.  
"Brandon, we cannot enter, wait for the morrow. Let's find an inn." Pleaded Ser Elbert.  
"We have travelled too far. I will not wait." He drew his gleaming sword from its sheath with a soft ring. "PRINCE RHAEGAR," he bellowed and his horse jolted at the noise. The sound echoed around the towers and turrets of the keep and the small folk who traded in the shadow of the walls turned to stare. "WHERE IS MY SISTER? WHERE IS LYANNA?" He began to trot his horse back and forth in front of the gate, over and over. "YOU STOLE MY SISTER IN THE NIGHT LIKE A THIEF. I WILL CUT YOUR SILVER HEAD FROM YOUR NECK IF YOU HAVE HARMED HER." The night had darkened and there was no moon, only stars that hardly lit the stone turrets of the castle. "OPEN YOUR GATES KING AERYS AND LET YOUR SON FACE NORTHERN JUSTICE." A crowd of common people had gathered, giving them a wide birth of space, some collected their things quickly and left, leaving nothing behind _. This bodes ill_ , thought Ethan. _We should not be here_.  
"DRAGON PRINCE, COME AND DIE." He shouted. A great iron creaking sounded and the gate moaned on its hinges. It opened slowly and on the drawbridge in their white armour, white cloaks fluttering about their ankles stood all seven of the Kingsguard _. I do not like this, we should not be here_. Ethan almost ran, he felt his hand shaking as it brushed the hilt if his sword. The seven ivory wraiths stepped forward as one, hardly distinguishable from one another. Prince Rhaegar was not with them. _He's not here, she's not either_. As the guard stepped closer he saw the golden hair of the newly knighted Ser Jaime Lannister and the milky glow of the Sword of the Morning.  
"It is treason to threaten the life of the Crown Prince Ser Brandon." A deep booming voice of the white figure in the centre of the line spoke. The Lord Commander. The White Bull.  
"You know this." Another voice agreed.  
"Your prince has stolen my sister, Lord Gerold. Will _he_ answer for _his_ crimes?" Lord Gerold exchanged a glance with the black haired knight beside him. _Prince Lewyn Martell_ , thought Ethan. "If she has been harmed I will spill every drop of his royal blood, then we shall see if dragons can really be slain." Lord Gerold nodded and the wraiths began to move. As if a blur, the ringing of drawn swords. Ethan could barely see them in the dark but suddenly his horse fell from under him with a scream. A white knight had cut its throat and Ethan hit the ground with a thud, his face crunching against the dirt. He felt a blinding pain. _My nose is broken_.  
"Mother have mercy. Mother have mercy." He whispered. He scrambled on the ground, soaked in his twitching mounts blood and he felt a sharp sword point on the back of his neck. The Red Keep was spinning in front of him, swirling and fading. He tried to get up but the point edged deeper, biting at the skin.  
"Best not boy." Ser Oswell? Or Ser Jonothor. He could not tell. He saw his friends lying on the ground too, the corpses of their horses covering the earth in blood. The edges of his vision turned a deep purple and from the ground he saw Ser Brandon wielding his sword only to be hit across the face by Ser Barristan Selmy, the hilt of his sword causing Ser Brandon's lip to split and coming to kneel before the Lord Commander, a deep cut across his face. He strained to hear the words they spoke, but his eyes were heavy and the darkness started to draw him in. Brandon bent his head, spitting blood at the feet of a white man then all was black.


	13. Elia

She curled her hands into fists; the joints were aching horribly and slightly swollen.  
She gritted her teeth and picked up the thread once more. The needlework was a difficult task with her tender knuckles but she battled through anyway, to admit she could not do it was to accept that she was truly as weak as the maester kept telling her. The Maidenvault had never been inviting for Elia, she had stayed there before her wedding, a foreign untainted maiden she was then. It was more a prison than a chamber ,as the tales told that Baelor the Blessed imprisoned his sisters there to keep him from temptation and it seemed King Aerys had the same idea for his wife too. Queen Rhaella sat beside her, a true beauty even though time had begun to linger on her lovely face, a Targaryen beauty. Her white blonde hair fell to her hips in lazy curls and her skin was a light gold as if she had been kissed by the sun itself. Her eyes were lighter than her son's, a lavender. She was a flower, delicate and fragile yet a great storm had come and broken her. She wore a dress that matched her eyes with a low neck and no sleeves; she would have been perfect if it were not for the yellow stains of bruises that clung her arms, stains that formed the print of a hand. Her powdered cheek concealed a scratch that could be seen through the heavy paste but it was her eyes that revealed her as a broken woman. Downcast and forlorn, the Queen was a flower who had never seen the sun.  
"How is my sweet grandson, child?" She asked, her voice was high and airy as if she spoke in a dream.  
"He is well mother. Healthy and growing strong."  
"Good. I had prayed for his health, I do hope he stays so..." She barely glanced at Elia as she spoke, it was always the way. Rhaegar had told her the stories of his mother's youth, she was passionate and fiery as all women of dragonblood are. She loved a knight of low birth and was heartbroken when her own father forced the marriage to her brother. Her lover devoted his life to the Seven, vowing only the Maiden herself could ever replace Rhaella in his heart. Elia knew of what the Queen spoke, poor Rhaella knew more than any the weakness of her own house, the terrible outcome of siblings wedding and bedding one another. Madness had run like poison through the veins the Targaryen's, a viper who was like to bite at any moment, her bruises, her beautiful skin marked so appallingly was proof enough. The King was never like to have a gentle heart, not even for his own Queen.  
"I pray too mother." _I pray for you my queen, I pray you find your solace, be it in the gods or in your mind,_ she thought sadly. Rhaegar may be distant, may be unruly and unpredictable but he was never cruel, never violent. _He is cruel_ , she reminded herself, _where is he now if he is not cruel?_  
"Our blood is strong in him, Aegon looks so like Rhaegar." She said, still looking down at her aimlessly embroidery.  
"It is, mother. I have no doubt that when he is a man grown they will be the image of one another." _If he ever returns, he might never return for his son._ Aegon might grow old and only hear the wonderful tales of his bold, valiant father who could not even raise his own son. The Queen placed down her needle and thread, looking up at Elia with sad, pale eyes.  
"He will return, sweet child. He will." She placed her hand on Elias wrist and she saw that too was bruised, a faded yellow. She stared down at it, now it was her who could not meet her gaze. "This supposed lust for the Stark girl it will fade and he will return. You are his wife, you have bared his children."  
"Being a man's wife is not your saviour from his cruelty." Elia's eyes flickered up momentarily to the hand print in tender skin on the Queen's arms, to her sad eyes. Elia then watched the white figure by the door cautiously, Ser Oswell stood guard and his head was bowed, his eyes closed. She shook her head with a heavy smile.  
"I know it well my child."

Elia walked the high walkway, her Dornish spears in tow and spied Lord Varys pattering across the courtyard below and decided that this was the time to corner him. Ashara had begged her to visit the black cells, to venture deep into those foul dungeons to see this poor boy. It could not be for the injustice of his arrest that the lady had taken such an interest in him, the fairness of his face more like. Elia had promised the weeping woman that she would find a way. Ashara was by her side and there were guards if the City Watch all around the balcony. She quickened her pace and descended the stairs. Lord Varys had reached the bottom step as she turned a corner. She was slightly breathless, since Aegon was born almost anything made her short of breath or dizzy.  
"Princess." He said inclining his head, meaning to pass her.  
"Lord Varys?" She called, placing a hand on the arm of his lavender silk robe. "A word, if you wouldn't mind." She turned to her guards in bronze and shoo-ed them away.  
"Of course not your grace. I am merely your servant." He smelled sweet, like the flowers that bloomed in the gardens, the cakes that the cook would only make on special occasions. He led her a little way and stopped to look at Ashara pointedly when she made to follow.  
"No my lord, my lady will join us."  
"We must be careful who we share our secrets with princess." He whispered under his breath. _I wonder does he speak of himself._  
"It is not my secret but hers." He nodded and when they were concealed in the shadows of the stone balcony that ran all the way round the courtyard he turned to them in the darkness, his beady eyes waiting.  
" _Your_ little birds aren't the only ones listening?" She asked but she knew. He nodded.  
"What can I do for you princess, my lady?"  
"Brandon Stark." The word tumbled from Ashara and her eyes were brimming with tears as she said it. She had been tearful since his arrest. To know any man lay in those deep dark black cells, alone, starving, bleeding was enough to leave any woman tearful but Elia suspected Ashara had a certain place in her heart for the handsome heir to Winterfell. Ashara pulled on the corset laces as she wiped a tear away, it sat a little more snugly than usually. _Maybe I shall suggest that she not eat anymore of those lemon cakes_.  
"I fear the Stark boy is far beyond my help now my lady, if saving him is what you ask me."   
"So his fate is sealed?" She asked her voice desperate.  
"I cannot say what the King will do my lady. But I am surprised you would ask this of me princess, he did threaten to kill your princely husband did he not?" Elia felt her face tighten. Rhaegar had been missing for almost five moons; he would do that from time to time, to visit the ruins of Summerhall, or one of his many dear friends. But he would always return with a tale or a song. She had heard Brandon Stark's words as she lay in bed, she heard the tale he brought and she felt an icy cold hand clench her heart. _Where is my sister? The prince has taken my sister._ Even now no-one knew where either was and Elia would feel the pitiful gaze and whispers when she ventured into court. _What a poor fool, he must think, to not know where mine own husband is, to be sitting here alone in his castle whilst he has stolen away with the daughter of a high lord._  
"He did, but you cannot truly believe he should die for his supposed crime?" she said coldly.  
"So you believe the prince has stolen her away princess?" his eyes watered as always, she saw her sickly face reflected in them.  
"I do not know where my husband is and I do not know where the Stark girl is. That is all my lord." The eunuch stared at her searchingly. _He knows, he knows._ She had cried the night Brandon Stark was arrested that she knew Rhaegar had taken Lyanna Stark, she knew he desired her after Harrenhal but she thought having Aegon would change everything. All she had was a ruined body in place of a sickly one and an empty bed in place of a husband. Ashara had left her that night and she had watched the stars, thinking of that blinding red comet. _You may not have been the prince that was promised but you were the prince that was promised to me_. Every time she thought of him she felt her heart turn to ice in her chest. She had dared to dream that Rhaegar cared for her more than that, he was such a good player in the farce of their love that even she had begun to believe him. _This is real love, leaving everything you know, to sacrifice your family; your Kingdom for a girl, what they have is real love._  
"My lady wishes to visit the black cells?" He asked, his forehead wrinkling.  
"Unseen and unknown my lord. No man knows those ways better than you."  
"I am flattered princess. I will see it is done, though I fear such fair ladies shall not find it pleasant."  
"My lord I have birthed two children, bloody and bawling leaving me almost dead. I am not as fair as I once was." She turned and walked away letting her lady in waiting hurry after her.

The white tower had no guard; if any man was fool enough to break in he would meet his end at the hands of the finest warriors in the realm. She had never entered it before and as the staircase spiraled up she passed a door that was slightly ajar. A feather beds filled the circular room, white sheets and pillows. In it a man, his face covered in a blanket snoozed his chest rising and falling, his sword belt and cloak hung beside him. She crept passed, her breathing becoming heavy with every step and a dull pain aching at her side. The light poured through the highest door and in it sat a round circular table, oak bleached ivory with seven chairs. In one, pouring over a white book sat Lord Gerold, quill in hand and in another Ser Jonothor. She coughed slightly to announce her arrival and they looked up in unison, wide-eyed. Ser Jonothor nearly knocked over his chair in his attempt to stand courteously and Lord Gerold rose slowly, his brow furrowed.  
"Your grace." His voice was deep and soothing.  
"Princess." Said Ser Jonothor, bowing his head. "If you had need of us you need have only sent word."  
"I have never been in the White Tower," she mused, she stared out at the view. She could see the Tower of the Hand and the gates to the Red keep, ravens and gulls floating on the wind around each turret. "In all the years I've lived here."  
"Is it your uncle you seek princess? He is with the King." He asked unsurely, ignoring her musings.  
"No it is another of your brothers, Ser Arthur." They exchanged a flickering glance, as if they knew already what she was seeking, as if they knew she would come even before she did. "Where is he Ser?"  
"Asleep in our chamber. I shall call him your grace." He bowed before leaving and hurried out of the room down the staircase out of sight. Lord Gerold stood still, he had not spoken. His eyes were fatherly and they seemed to seep with pity, Elia could barely look at him. _I do not need your sympathy my lord._  
"How is the young prince your grace?" He said tentatively, his thick speckled beard was bushy and he stroked it.  
"Well, my lord. Healthy as can be, the gods have surely blessed him."  
"Blessed with good health and good blood. No prince has ever been in better favour your grace." Echoing voices from below floated up the stairs and soon the sound of heavy footsteps grew nearer. Ser Jonothor appeared back in the doorway and few paces behind him stood the knight she looked for. Arthur Dayne was tall and broad, with thick shoulders. He pushed his almost white blonde hair from his face in such a way that Elia was reminded of Rhaegar. He wore his steel breastplate over his ivory tunic he'd slept in and his white breeches had been hastily tucked into his long boots. His cloak was clasped dutifully into place and his great sword was strapped across his back as ever. He too seemed to pity her.  
"Your grace." He said. He had the same eyes as his sister, purple and beautiful. But they did not laugh as Ashara's did, they were stern, they had seen men die, seen their blood spilled in war and seen his own hand take the life of another. He stared expectantly around for someone to speak, Elia realised it should be her. _I am princess, a daughter of the sun, these men are my uncle's brothers, and they will be truthful_. She felt a prickle in her cheeks, a flush rising in her face, she was embarrassed and intimidated. What could she have to say that these knights would pay any mind to?  
"I need," she started nervously; "I need to speak with Ser Arthur alone, my lord, Ser Jonothor. Would you be so kind as to leave us?" They stared at Ser Arthur momentarily before nodding and leaving. Lord Gerold gave her one last mournful look before closing the door behind him. The air seemed to thicken and she felt the knight's watchful stare on her; she turned her back to him knowing she could not ask him what needed to be asked if she must do it eye to eye. _If that makes me craven then call me craven_ , she thought. "Ser, I must ask you something." He did not stir behind her, if she had not seen he was there with her own eyes she would have been sure the room was empty. Not even his breath made the air move. "You must know what I may ask."  
"I do your grace." His voice resonated in his muscled chest and was slow, the words drawn as if each one was carefully thought over before spoken. "Yet I fear I know of little that will aid your woe." She turned to face him now, studying those violet eyes. _If I stare at them long enough it's as if they are his_. She knew in her heart they didn't have the warmth that Rhaegar's did, the knowing quaintness as if he always knew something you did not. Ser Arthur's eyes were honest; any emotion he should feel would be plain to see like the words on a page. "I do not know if he has truly done what Brandon Stark says he has your grace. I do not know if he has taken her in love, in lust, in madness or at all. All I know, with the gods as my witness, is that Stark sits in the deepest blackest cell, with little food and water awaiting what could be his death. Men do not give up their lives for so little. Not men like him." Elia could not tell if she was pleased or saddened by that. He doesn't know that Rhaegar has taken the Stark girl but he thinks he must have. Ser Arthur's face was calm and collected but there seemed a little something in his eyes now, disappointment. He was disappointed in his friend. He who holds honour above all else, his dearest friend had done that which was most dishonourable.  
"Thank you Ser Arthur." She did not think he knew anymore, she did not think him a liar. He's a soldier not a spider. She made to leave the room, the doorknob within her grasp.  
"I know he cares greatly for you princess." He did not use the word love. _He cannot lie_.  
"Does he?" She asked, with an arched eyebrow, closing the door with a thud behind her.

The baby cried and cried, bawling and screaming until he was red in the face. He gave breathless rasps that made her shudder. She had had a wet nurse for Rhaenys but even then it pained her to see another woman nursing her own daughter. There had been much protesting of it when she continually sent the wet nurse away, preferring to comfort her son herself, to feed him from her own breast. The maester had even come in, all his wheezing self ,standing over her clutching Aegon. "You are not in the best of health your grace. Using more of your liveliness to feed the young prince is unwise."  
"My children are all I seem to have maester. I will not let another woman care for them when I am their mother." She said defiantly. Rhaenys had begun to crawl into her bed a week after Rhaegar disappeared and when Brandon Stark screamed at the gates she had covered her ears with hands, her eyes leaking at his words. _She is her father's daughter, not weak like me_ , she thought. He said he loved her too; it was no act his affection for his children. He loved her and left her. Would he ever return? Would their son ever know his father? She rocked the babe in her arms and soon he became so tired by his own crying he began to stop, every so often giving a muffled cry. His tuft of silvery hair was soft and smelled of the flowers in the gardens below. She had moved from the chamber in Maegor's Holdfast, it always seemed too suffocating, too airless. The room in the Red Keep was the one she stayed in most nights, it had more windows, more ornate furnishings. The four poster bed had dragons carved into each wooden panel, each a different dragon, a different King. When they were newlywed Rhaegar had kept her up until the dawn peeked through the sky to tell her the tale of each. She could not recall any name he'd said, only that she had watched him speak, his eyes lit with passion and she was at peace. Aegon closed his violet eyes to the world and was soon asleep. _For the rarity of purple eyes, I seem to be surrounded by those in possession of them,_ she thought. There was a soft shuffling of the wind behind her and she glanced over her shoulder, barely looking. She turned to place Aegon in a crib that had been placed beside her own bed begrudgingly by the maester and his septas.  
"We are all so untroubled in sleep your grace. Even children" she spun around, her heart beating fast. A man cloaked and hooded in a faded brown robe stood in the middle if the room. He lowered his dark hood. The man had dark matted hair and a thick beard, she froze. His eyes seemed to smile, they watered and his tongue darted out, a pink worm to moisten his lips. _Varys_.  
"My lord," she said breathlessly. "You startled me, how did you- where-? The door?"  
"Doors are not the only doorways princess." He said with a knowing smile. "You asked me to show you Ser Brandon did you not your grace?" She nodded.  
"Ashara..."  
"-Is awaiting her princess." He held out his powdered hand. It seemed to hang in the air for an eternity before she took it in her own. He led her to the fireplace where the last dying embers glowed mournfully. He placed a hand on the stone, running it along the smooth wall and pushed it gently. The walls seemed to slide, turning, churning and only the softest of clinks could be heard. Where the alcove of the fireplace had been was a dark, empty hole. Hollow. She stared into it awestruck. _This is how he knows, this is his secret_.  
"Your grace?" The darkness called unsurely, Ashara moved into the light and tripped slightly on the uneven stone underfoot.  
"Careful, careful my lady." Lord Varys tittered. Elia gripped tightly to the eunuch's hand _. This was a foolish idea, foolish. What if he tells? I cannot trust him, Rhaegar said. Rhaegar said many a thing_ , she told herself stepping gingerly into the blackness beyond the wall. The temperature seemed to drop almost instantly and she felt her skin prickle as Lord Varys stepped behind her, closing the wall with a touch so they stood alone in the empty narrow space. Ashara breathed heavily, her breath the only sound. "Whispers now, if any words at all my lady, your grace." He began to lead them along, the dust rising as they slowly began to move. "One hand on the wall, the other on the one in front. Do as I do and we shall reach our prisoner unharmed." Elia nodded though she knew he couldn't see. Ashara placed a quivering hand on Elia's shoulder and Elia held it for a moment in comfort. _This is why Maegor killed all those who built the castle; this is how the spider hears._ Rhaegar was right to not trust the eunuch; he must know every word they had ever spoken.  
"It's so very dark my lord." Whispered Ashara behind her.  
"Spiders live in the dark my lady." They turned a sharp corner and the corridor began to slope downward slightly and a beam of light that was almost blinding came from further down. As they came closer Elia saw it was a hole in the floor. Below was the swelling rushing water of the sea, the waves breaking on the jagged rocks beneath, one false step and there was no hope of life beyond that. Varys jumped the gap swiftly but Elia stood scared on the other side. She watched the water swell beneath, her foot kicked a fragment of rock off the side and it fell, forever falling, disappearing in the depths.  
"Princess you must jump." He held out his hand again and she took it, hopping over, eyes closed. Ashara followed her dutifully though she mouthed a silent prayer before she too crossed the hole. They turned down another long corridor only this time, there were voices. Tuneless song was heard behind one wall, another was a servant's muttered curse.  
"Must you leave me again my love?" asked a woman. Lord Varys slowed to tread less heavily and Elia and Ashara followed suit.  
"I must though I wish I never left such a fair sight. Vows are vows and though the gods may curse me to break them I will never deny my heart." The voice was slightly muffled, further from the wall than the woman but Elia recognised its Dornish tones.  
"Uncle?" She said not at a whisper, stopping her steady pace. Lord Varys turned suddenly a finger to his lips.  
"What was that?" The woman said confused. Elia held her breath, her eyes wide with her own confusion. _Oberyn had been right after all, he did have a paramour_. She wanted the woman to speak more, so she might recall her voice too. But the spider became to pull on her hand, leading them on. She wanted to stay, to listen. _Would I truly wish to know what I hear?_ She thought. She turned behind her to see Ashara only inches from her.  
"My uncle." Elia whispered incredulously. "Who was that woman do you know?"  
"I did not recognise her voice your grace. To break his vows..." she let the sentence trail away. A heinous crime it was to forsake holy vows, punishable by death in the hands of some Kings. King Aerys was one of those Kings. A deep snoring echoed from behind the next wall. Another had soft praying.  
"Fucking King and his fucking ashes everywhere." Cursed one wall. "Why must I be forever cleaning ash?" The narrow path begun to slope steeper still and worn steps had been carved into the floor to aid the way.  
"I told 'im at Harrenhal, I said, you think you're coming back 'ere drunk like that again you can bloody well forget it-." Another voice spoke. The ceiling was every so often brushing against the top of her head and bumping it on the rocks painfully, she bit her lip to stop from crying out. Her hand trailed along the rough walls and Ashara's hand gripped her shoulder tightly, the nails cutting through her dress to bite at the skin. Soon the ceiling sloped too and they all bent their heads uncomfortably to keep moving. When they were all bent double and standing was impossible Lord Varys stopped.  
"We must crawl from here your grace, my lady."  
"Crawl? But my dress..-" cried Ashara.  
"- can be replaced I'm sure my lady." He bent and began to crawl, Elia followed still _. I asked this of him, what choice do we have?_ They crawled for what seemed hours, Elia felt her dress snag and rip, her knees cutting and wet with blood. Suddenly the faded sight of the bottom of Lord Vary's slippers and his round rear were no longer in front of her, he stood now in what she saw was a dim light. She blinked again to be sure it was truly light. He helped her up and in turn she helped Ashara stand. They stood in a circular room, they were high above the ground. There were ladders against the walls and each one led to a different archway, each empty arch leading further into the gloom. _They lead to different parts of the castle, they must._ Far below a round circular floor with a dusty covered mosaic of a three headed dragon with burning torches in brackets to light it. Maegor was decadent even in his shadows it seems. A scuffling in one of the narrow arches caused Elia's head to whip round frightened. "A mouse princess, only a mouse." He did not speak in whispers anymore, they were too far from the castle now.  
"Where are we?"  
"Beneath the holdfast. There are no passages between the walls in the holdfast, King Maegor wanted no... _Rats_ in his own walls. Or birds or spiders it seems."  
"Where now my lord?" Asked Ashara, her hand back on Elia's shoulder.  
"Down fair lady, down, down and further still. Your knight awaits though I fear little knight is left." They took the ladder slowly Elia's knees were sore and her back ached. The pain in her stomach had begun again dull and never ending, the joints on her hands had swollen but she gripped each wring tightly, gritted her teeth to ignore the pain. Lord Varys took one of the torches off the brackets, leading them toward another larger passage. Her footprints left deep marks in the dust over the mosaic dragon below and they soon left the dim torch light behind and entered back into the dark. It smelt of waste here and urine, there was another smell, sweet and sickly that gave her the horrid reminder of rotting meat. _Do not think of it, do not._ The lowest cells were used for torture and never used anymore but it was still cold and smelt of the dead. It seemed to open up before them, the ceiling expanding, Elia took in a large metal contraption to her left before the light was extinguished. "You shall sleep easier if you do not see your grace."  
"You should know my lord, I hardly sleep easy anymore." He tittered, the giggle almost blasphemous in the dark.  
"Very good princess, very good." He led them round the room and soon a small flight of steps and then another hall. This was what they came for, the black cells. The eunuch reignited the torch in his hand but there were torches on brackets lighting this hallway and on the floor at the end a figure lay face down on the ground. As they approached him Elia saw he was bald, huge and filthy. He smelt strongly of wine.  
"Is he dead?" Ashara asked, giving the man a nudge with her ruined slipper.  
"No, no sleeping my lady. Deep in sleep."  
"He's the guard." Elia said her voice too loud in the deafening silence.  
"Yes your grace." Lord Varys's said stooping to collect the ring of keys the man had clasps in one fat hand. "And now for what he was guarding." He selected one old rusted key from a bunch of his brothers and led them a few paces to stand in front of a barred cell. As he turned the key in the lock it gave a metallic whine and the door squeaked on its hinges. A dark figure was chained by the wrists and ankles to the thick stone wall. It did not move, The Lord moved his torch closer and the light filled the remaining space. The figure flinched at the fire, so accustomed to the darkness. A filthy, blood covered man with a thick amount of beard and shaggy black hair sat limply before them.  
"Brandon?" Ashara called unsurely. Was she disappointed this high born knight she had surely bedded had fallen so spectacularly from grace? Elia chastised herself, to think her friend so shallow. He barely moved still and Elia moved forward, her foot crunching on something. A rat's skeleton. It cracked under her weight, scattering the fragments of bones across the floor, one rolled in front of the heir to the North, who jerked his head warily from the sound. He was only a shade of the man who had been knocked off his horse in the tourney, which laughed and jested with his brothers and sister, his kinsmen, who were surely bound in other cells. He had lost weight, his face gaunt, and his cheekbones sharp. He was still dressed in his armour, only now it was rusted, ragged and bloody. Their seemed to be no chamber pot and the air was thick with the smell of excrement and urine. The stains of his waste were smeared across the floor with the bones of rats and a few larger bones that Elia willed herself not to look at. "Ser Brandon?" Ashara asked again her voice echoing in the dim. He looked up now letting his face be bathed in the torchlight that sent their shadows dancing across the walls. His right eye was black, yellowing, bruised with dried blood caked around his brow; his lip and chin too were covered in his blood which had turned brown with time. How many weeks had he been here? She could not think, the smell filled her head, clouding her mind. Lord Varys produced a horn of ale from under his cloak and then a small loaf of bread and he thrust the burning torch into Elias hand. He hurried forward even his spider footsteps echoing in the silence and placed the bread under his nose. His eyes widened at the smell and he took a ravenous bite, almost removing part of the eunuch's finger in his haste. He chewed quickly then his dark eyes widened again.  
"No.. no." He whispered, his voice was hoarse and dry. "No, my men, my men they need food, it's my fault, mine, my men." he seemed to speak with no direction, every so often muttering something into the dark.  
"Your kinsmen will be fed too ser, but you must eat now, there is plenty for your loyal companions." Ser Brandon did not seem to need telling twice before he raised his manacled hands, the chains scraping noisily across the floor, scattering bones and sending waves of sludge towards Elia who stood dumbfounded with Ashara beside her. Lord Varys knelt, the knee of his robe wet with the waste almost instantly but he did not seem to be bothered, he uncorked the horn and tilted it so Ser Brandon could drink. He drained the horn in one until it was completely dry, he let his sore, blistered wrists fall back to the ground with a loud clanking.  
"What- what news?" He asked, staring about wildly as if they had only just appeared, "Am I going to die?" He asked the question like a boy, though he was man. It was breathless and it seemed to warrant no answer. Elia wanted nothing more than to reach out and comfort him but she was rooted to the ground.  
"The King has sent for your lord father to answer for your crimes, he has also sent word to the fathers of your kinsmen. When he arrives you will stand trial." Elia stared at the cloaked lord. She did not know this, it had not been announced that this decision had been made. Mayhaps the eunuch had heard it whispered or it had already come to pass in the deep secret councils of the high lords.  
"My father." Ser Brandon breathed, his chest rose and fell heavily, each breath laboured. Ashara grabbed Elias hand, squeezing it tightly. "My sister. Lyanna? Is she safe? Where is she?"  
"I do not know ser, your sister is nowhere to be found it seems."  
"He took her, he took her, I know," He muttered, "His eyes, they lingered too long, I know, I know." It wasn't just the smell that seemed to fill Elia's head now, but his echoing words, slow and pounding like the beat of a foul drum. _I know, I know._ She felt the lump rising in her throat and the room swam as her eyes glossed with tears. _What man would suffer this for a lie?_   She thrust the torch towards Ashara, turned on her heel and ran. _His eyes, they lingered too long._


	14. Arthur

The high walkway past the drawbridge of the Red Keep was windy and smelt of the stinking sewers below.  
The foot of the wall teemed with life and a crowd had gathered to see the new additions the King had put on spikes. Six charred, blackened heads barely distinguishable from one another sat in pairs. Father and son. Each of Ser Brandon's kinsmen and their lordly fathers had burned to the screams of delight from the commons and the twitching smile of the King. Arthur had held up Ser Elbert Arryn as he stared wide eyed and terrified as the shrieks of his burning friend Ser Kyle Royce and his father, brother to Lord 'Bronze' Yohn Royce filled the air. In Prince Lewyn's grasp was the young squire, only a boy, a child who quivered and shook, praying for mercy to the Mother Above. Prince Lewyn had stared at Ser Elbert piteously as Arthur let the gaolers take him up the wooden dais he would burn too. He saw the fire reflected in his brothers black eyes and felt it warm on his face. He heard only the crackling flames and his own heart thud slowly in his chest, far off as if leagues away the echoes of a man's scream. He stared at his own reflection as he shaved late before his watch of Maegor's Holdfast begun, his dark purple eyes glared back accusingly. _How can you let this madness happen?_ They said. _They were innocent you know it and the gods know it too_. King Aerys had smiled as they burned and Arthur could not look at him. _A vow is vow, they are made to test men_. The heir to the North and his squire still say in their black cells and Lord Rickard was confined to a room in the keep. He had drawn his glorious Valyrian sword from its scabbard as they came toward him, still mounted and weary from the journey. Lords Rickard's face was haggard and desperate. _He has lost one daughter to his prince and he may lose a son to his King_ , Arthur told himself to lower his sword but duty drew it anyhow. Arthur drew Dawn and she glimmered sweetly, a blushing steel maiden that only he could claim. How he wished to hear them sing, Ice and Dawn but for the sake of his son the burly cloaked Lord of the North lowered his steel and came quietly. They awaited trial, but the trials in King Aerys court had been unjust of late and the whispers of his cruel nature had grown a little louder. The charred heads were blackened meat that would never sing the injustices of their unforgiving King. No tales would be told of their bravery, no maids would sing of their chivalry or their loyalty to their friend and lord. They were boys who thought themselves men, who learned too late what it meant to cross paths with power.

The keep was still and quiet as he made the short walk to the drawbridge of the holdfast. He could still see the heads on their spikes above the castle walls, the sky turning crimson behind them. He shook head, his pale hair swaying with it. As he walked past the throne room a figure in pale peach exited, his silken slippers making no sound upon the stone.  
"Ser Arthur" Lord Varys nodded courteously, his sly smile got no return from Arthur, who watched him darkly.  
"My lord." he bowed his head curtly.  
"Such dreadful sport today, those northern boys and their fathers." The eunuch said gesturing in the direction of the blackened heads.  
"They were traitors my lord." He said coolly. This _spider may control the King but not I. I do not whisper in the dark. There are no words I say I do not wish to be heard._  
"Yes, yes the most terrible traitors, you are right ser." His nodding bald head was powdered heavily but still the torch light shone from it. He smelled strongly of flowers but it was a false smell, too strong and sharp. _A false scent for a false lord._ "I must let you continue your duty ser, I'm sure you have much... _guarding_ to do." _Does he mock me?_ _This man who is hardly man at all_. Arthur stared at him and the eunuch's smile seemed to falter a little, mayhaps he was reminded that Arthur could cut him a head shorter in the time it took him to concoct one slimy sentence.  
"A duty only those worthy enough can do, my lord." The spider gave a breathless titter stepping to the side to pass Arthur.  
"Ah I am no knight I fear, ser. My words are my only weapon."  
"Let us see what weapons a wordsmith has when a man draws his sword." The giggle was nervous as he begun to step away again, still facing Arthur.  
"Very good Ser Arthur, very good." He watched the floating robes slip round the corner silently with narrowed eyes. _I trust him not, that master of whispers_. He whispers in many ears and tells many tales, but which are true and which false? Whose man was he really when he could turn the crowned head whichever way he pleased with a soft word. Arthur readjusted his greatsword on his back, shifting the weight slightly across his broad shoulders. Ser Jaime stood in the centre of the heavy bridge leading to the castle within a castle, it's moat filled with rusted spikes. He turned at the noise of Arthur's armour, his hand resting cautiously on his golden sword. He had dark rings beneath his emerald eyes and they too looked tired, with a pinkish tinge to the whites.  
"You are tired Jaime, go and rest. Your watch is done." He was skilled with a sword and a quicker hand than he had ever seen. He had held the Smiling Knight at bay in the kingswood when he was only a squire and his hand had been slower and his sword blunter then. Now he was as deadly as any of his white brothers but with the sweet ally of youth at his side. He had knighted the boy himself, his sword still drenched in the blood of that fearsome outlaw. It was smeared across Jaime Lannister's shoulders as he said his words. _He will be a great knight, fearsome, kind and fair, a knight soldiers sing of on the eve of battle._  
"I can stay a little longer, it has been so long since I have spoken I'd feared I'd forgotten how." Arthur nodded and stood beside Jaime so they were shoulder to shoulder, blocking the path to the holdfast.  
"Then speak ser, though I fear words escape me at the best of times." It had always been Rhaegar who could coax the few words he had in him out, after so many years of staying silent in the shadows Arthur had to remind himself to speak at times. "Any news this night brother?" Arthur asked, forcing a less severe tone.  
"Your lady sister asked me to pass a message to you." He flushed slightly, Lannister crimson. Arthur had to control himself from smiling though he felt his mouth twitching nonetheless. The fairness of his sister and the attention it attracted no longer caused him the annoyance it had in his youth. Jaime had clearly noticed along with every other man who'd ever laid eyes upon Ashara. "She wishes you to sup with her on the morrow."  
"I am with the King on the morrow." Said Arthur, sounding more blunt than he had intended.  
"I told her I would take your place. She seemed so desperate to see you." _I am sure you would have done more than exchange our guard should she have asked it golden boy._  
"Very well then, though I think you could do with the rest Jaime. You do not look well."  
"I am fine Arthur, only I heard..." He said tentatively, his eyes glancing over the empty hallway quickly. "The Queen... she screamed... I couldn-" Arthur raised a hand to silence him. He knew of what Jaime spoke. He knew what the Queen would scream, of what King Aerys would do to his own wife. He knew why she was bruised and broken. Such a fair woman. It was best to not think of it at all though his guilty mind always wondered to it. When she exited the royal chamber in the morning and stared at him pleadingly, a new cut across her face, he could only gaze at the stony floor and pray for her.  
"I know of what you speak and it is better left unsaid Jaime. We are sworn to the King. We are merely his pale shadows, we do not hear, we do not speak, we only wait and protect." Jaime nodded as if he wished to say more but dared not. Arthur glanced the hall as his brother had, expecting to see that silk-garbed spider peering round a dark corner.

He and his sister dined the next night in the Maidenvault and a great amount of food had been laid out. A singer with a high harp sat in the shadows singing of a Dornishman and his wife. A fat pig had been roasted on a spit and placed in the centre of the table, a servant was cutting it carefully. Another filled his cup and he thanked him, the boy smiled brightly and he returned it. No doubt he wants to be a knight too. A sweet thought.  
"Dear sister is this not a little ostentatious for your brother? It is only I and I would have been satisfied with merely your company."  
"Don't be foolish Arthur, every man is allowed a little decadence once in a while. You of all men deserve it." She said placing her hand on his, squeezing it slightly. "I have missed you so, it seems you are always so close yet so far."  
"I have my duty to the King. I must do as I vowed the gods I would."  
"Yes, yes Arthur but I'm sure the gods will allow you a little time for your sister." She smiled, kissing his cheek. "Although I wish you wouldn't wear that at the table brother." She eyed the hilt of Dawn over his shoulder and he arched his brow. She knew he would not remove it. "I know, I know. You cannot be convinced. It is of little matter, you are here now and that is all I care for."  
"I'm so glad you are satisfied Ashara." She gave him a dark look. The kind she used to give him as a child when she thought he was being a brute. She rolled her lovely eyes at him and he smiled. They had been close as children, Starfall was beautiful and tranquil but not the bustling town that Sunspear was. It guarded the western arm of Dorne and the last attack from the Reach had been almost thirty years before his birth. Life was peaceful, something in age he had learned to appreciate but boys thrive in excitement. They were the very opposite in appearance, his almost ivory blonde hair and hers, black as onyx. he, muscled and tall even as a youth where she was fragile and dainty but their eyes were the same. A deep violet like their ancestors of old, their looks more Targaryen than Rhoynar like other Dornishmen. Ashara was his only distraction from an all too peaceful life. "Well I am glad to see you smile. Of late there has not been much happiness from you Arthur, what in the gods is troubling you so?" _What_ is _troubling me so?_ Arthur thought, _would that I_ _knew._ Every time he walked through the Red Keep he felt an unsettling of ease in his mind, his stomach fluttered and he resisted the urge to reach for his sword. He felt like he had the eve of battle, riding into the dark kingswood to face the Smiling Knight, the unknown his only path and bloodshed his cloak.  
"Nothing is the matter, you know more than any that I am a man of few words and fewer smiles." He gave her a rare smile now to ease her mind and hers was dazzling in return.  
"Oh Arthur, how I wish you were not such a serious man." She sighed. She called over the servant to pour more wine. "Princess Elia will be joining us and Princess Rhaenys, possibly Prince Viserys too. I know children are not your favourite company but I had hoped you wouldn't mind." It was not that he disliked children but they seemed frightened of him. They hid behind their mother's skirts should he talk to them and bawl should he smile. Nothing ever made him feel more a monster. Though Rhaegar's daughter was sweet and sharp tongued, a very amusing trait in a young child who did not know when to hold said tongue.  
"It is their castle, they may do what they like." He said indifferently.  
"In other words, you would rather they didn't but are too courteous to say so." He felt his mouth twitch. Ashara was such a different woman in private as she was in company. She was the perfect high-born maiden, beautiful, well spoken, she seemed to flirt with even the eunuch. Every man felt her charm, no-one was beneath her. He loved her for it, her lack of judgement, and her naive ability to trust anyone and see the good in them. He had lost that somewhere, maybe it was the first time he saw the life fade from a man or saw a friend's head roll across the hard ground toward him. "Before they come there is something I wanted to tell you." He set his goblet down to give her his attention. "I intend to return to Starfall." He was surprised, he had thought Ashara loved court. She had blossomed here and it was her home.  
"Return home? For what reason sister?"  
"I miss it, I miss the Summer Sea, the hot sun. I miss our family. I miss Dorne." He did not blame her, compared to stinking city of King's Landing Starfall was paradise with its marble fountains and desert flowers.  
"You would leave the princess? She is surely... _in need_ of your friendship in this troubling time Ashara."  
"I have been her lady-in-waiting for almost seven years Arthur, I must live my own life do you not agree?" He supposed it was time she was married, he was no longer the heir to Starfall and it fell to her to continue their line. "There is another reason. Something is amiss here, and you must feel it too. Since Prince Rhaegar took Lady Lyanna there is an ill mood in the air." He was not the only one. He felt a flood of relief that Ashara had sensed it too, but to leave the castle all together, to leave the service of the Princess may bode ill.  
"I have felt it too Ashara. But to leave now, is it wise?" The King was suspicious that the North may rise against him after these arrests, he would want reassurance that he still held power. If Ashara left may he take it as a slight of her loyalty, he may think she returns to Dorne to conspire with the Martells, who had surely felt the slight against Elia.  
"What of it is unwise?"  
"Mayhaps you are right. Who knows what the King will do with the Starks but whichever the outcome the North will not be content with it, it may be safer you return to Dorne."  
"My thoughts exactly, not now but soon." He nodded in agreement.  
"Soon."

Once the meal was done and the two young royals snoozed happily on a velvet chair he took his leave. He walked round the keep, past the Royal Sept and down a flight of torch lit steps. He could not sleep just yet, mayhaps he would walk a while, to the gardens, Rhaegar had liked to sit there and read sometimes. When the White Tower was too silent he would slip out and join him. Even when the prince was a hardly a man grown they had sat in the gardens, when he took up arms and Ser Willem Darry taught him better than any how to wield a sword he would try and convince Arthur to draw his own which eventually he always did. Prince Lewyn had watch on the holdfast and turned to see him pass.  
"Had a good evening Arthur?" He asked pleasantly. Prince Lewyn was a good man with a sharp wit and a sharper sword, Arthur was rather fond of him, his only fellow Dornishman on the guard. They would talk nostalgically of Dorne and once Prince Lewyn had a drink or two there was no stopping his detailed description of the great tower of Sunspear and the red sands. _"Oh the women, the women."_ He would say blissfully. An honourable man who kept his vows but Arthur couldn't help but think Prince Lewyn found his chastity the most difficult to keep. _Dornishmen have warm blood, perhaps I am the least Dornish of all the men in Dorne._  
"Pleasant as any my prince." He slowed and his heavy footsteps on the drawbridge made it bounce slightly. Prince Lewyn was lithe and slender as any salty Dornish but Arthur was heavier by far and he almost feared the bridge might collapse sometimes when he heard the creaking iron chains.  
"My niece is well?" He asked, pushing his black hair from his eyes.  
"Very. The prince too I hear."  
"I am pleased. A Martell, a King." He shook his head in proud disbelief. "I pray I shall live to protect him too."  
"You and I both Prince Lewyn."  
"Oh there is a call to court on the morrow. The trial of Brandon Stark I believe."  
"It is high time, that boy has spent too long in those dreadful cells." Arthur had taken the bloodied heir to Winterfell into those deep black cells. He had smelt the stench from far away and standing in the sludge of men's waste it was overwhelming. There were mutterings and screams from other cells and Brandon Stark had closed his eyes as the gaoler clamped him in heavy irons. He opened them and stared at Arthur with an accusing look. _"He took her, you know he took her."_   Was all he said and when Arthur turned and let the cell be locked behind him he heard Stark screaming it, it echoed off the thick walls, following Arthur until he was far beyond its sound.  
"I agree. Though I fear what awaits him at court will be just as dreadful. May the gods have mercy." Prince Lewyn clasped his gloved hands together, as if in prayer.  
"May the _King_ have mercy." Said Arthur and Lewyn arched a dark eyebrow but he nodded still.  
"Yes, the King."

The hall was deathly silent when Arthur and his brothers entered behind the King. King Aerys climbed up the dais and perched himself on the edge of the Iron Throne. His Kingsguard stood in an impenetrable line before the throne/ He nodded to Lord Gerold, who exited the hall quickly, his armour clinking softly as he walked and re-entered moments later followed by two gold cloaks of the City Watch holding Ser Brandon Stark in chains. His dark hair was matted and greasy, he hadn't been shaved in those dark cells and his beard was a thick mass of hair clinging to his jaw. He looked ragged and weak, the black cells could do that to a man, however youthful. Dark circles ringed his eyes and the hollows of his cheeks were sunken holes in his once handsome face. Arthur watched him piteously as Brandon was thrown in front of the King and his face smashed into the stone floor, his chained hands unable to stop the fall. His nose was now bloody, oozing into his beard and down his face. He ignored it as he struggled up and looked on the face of his King with defiance, raising his chin high.  
"You have been found guilty of treason Ser Brandon. The punishment is death." King Aerys had a reedy voice, shrill when raised but now it had a menacing song-like quality that made Arthur shiver in his steel.  
"And what is the punishment for abduction?" Brandon's voice was harsh and it wasn't the rawness of his throat that made the words bite. Arthur had wondered what the King's answer to this question would be, his own son had taken the boy's sister and disappeared. Arthur would not believe it when he heard, his own friend, the prince was a brother to him. _Betrayal tastes bitter_ , he thought.  
"You will refer to the King as _your grace_ , ser." Called Prince Lewyn from beside the throne. Brandon didn't remove his eyes from the King and spat a bloody glob on the floor.  
"You throw me in a cell whilst your son rapes my sister and you ask to be called _Grace_?" he said with a mocking laugh but his voice was full of malice, his dark eyes cold. The King looked over Ser Brandon with his pale violet eyes, surveying him slowly. He cocked his head to the side.  
"Bring in Lord Rickard." The King called shrilly. Ser Brandon's eyes widened and he turned to see his father brought in through the same door. Lord Rickard was still in his furs and steel, he was glorious but tattered. His beard and hair were matted and the muscular man had lost a substantial amount of weight. He was being heaved by two gold cloaks and looked coldly at the court, his eyes only softening at the sight of his son _. He was meant to be well kept,_ he thought. _Treated as a high-born captive._  
"F-Father?" Brandon stammered but Lord Rickard only shook his head. A wooden platform had been erected to the side of the dais and above it hung a pair of rusty manacles. Lord Rickard was led up the wooden steps to them, looking around at the gathered crowd warily as his hands were clamped tightly in the cuffs. A gold cloak took a glass bottle from the floor and poured it over Lord Rickard's head. He shook his great head as the oil ran over his eyes and mouth, sending droplets flying into the crowd who stepped back quickly. The oil seeped over his grey hair and oozed into his clothing and began to drip on the floor. He watched the gold cloaks then slide part of the platform away slowly, screeching as it was pulled across the floor. He hung, suspended by his wrists, the steady drip of the oil off his boots was the only sound.  
"Lord Rickard, do you deny your son's treason?" Asked the King. _Drip, drip, drip._  
"Where is my daughter your grace?" He asked slowly. "What has the prince done with _my_ daughter?" His voice was calm and deep. It made the hairs on his arms stiffen. Arthur knew King Aerys had heard no word of where Rhaegar had taken Lady Lyanna, he had sent men searching far and wide, from Castle Black to Sunspear, he had ordered the eunuch to tell him of any whispers of his whereabouts but Rhaegar remained concealed. _He is too sharp to be out-witted by that spider._  
"Answer your King, Lord Rickard." Said Lord Gerold gravely. Lord Rickard stared at them and swallowed, the apple in his neck moving with the action. He tried to readjust his hands but the manacles were tight and they rattled as he swayed. The new Hand, Lord Merryweather sweated beside the King, Lord Tywin would not have been so craven. Lord Tywin would have negotiated the Northmen's release, instead he sat in his Rock with his fair daughter and contorted imp son doing nothing.  
"Tell me where my daughter is and I will give you your answer." The court stared at King. All in realm knew now of Rhaegar's kidnap though no word had been spoken to confirm it. The people wanted to know, were desperate for news of this most delicious scandal. "I demand a trial by combat, choose your champion your grace, you have no lack of them." The court turned to stare at the Kingsguard, whispering to one another over who would be chosen. King Aerys stared at the Warden of the North and turned, nodding at the gold cloak again. They grabbed Ser Brandon under the arms the pulled him forcefully so he slid backwards. From the back of the hall a leather noose was brought. It was tied around one of the large columns that lined the walls. He watched them cautiously and his chest rose and fell quicker now, ragged breaths escaping his mouth.  
"Ser Arthur." The King called and Arthur turned his head to his King. He knew he would be chosen, from all his brothers the King seemed to place such trust in his sword. _The gods will forgive you, you swore an oath._ "Place your great Dawn in front of Ser Brandon. On the floor." He looked quizzically at him but removed the sword dutifully from his back and walked towards the boy. As he placed it down Ser Brandon raised his dark head and met his eyes, giving him a pleading look, his deep grey eyes full of defiant terror. Arthur looked away guiltily and walked back to his place beside the throne, he felt the gaze of the crowd on his back. A golden cloaked group brought forward a huge mass of wood, enough for a blaze to heat an army and set it under Lord Rickard, they lit it so it smoked and soon began to crackle.  
"I choose my champion Lord Rickard. Fire is my champion." The mist turned to flames and it began to flicker and crackle, reaching higher towards Lord Rickard.  
"Only the old gods can judge us Brandon." Lord Rickard spoke, his voice unwavering. He was brave, this Lord of the North, a true man meeting his death. Arthur swallowed. _No man should die this way_ , he thought. He looked at the King who watched the fire with bright eyes, rubbing his knarled, bony hands on his thighs excitedly. He was close enough to see that under his breeches, he was hard. He felt disgusted watching this man he called King.  
"Ser Brandon," He said with a smile, trying to stifle a laugh. "If you can reach the sword and free yourself, you may cut down your father and return to the North." _He would never reach it_ , Arthur thought. Brandon raised a bound hand to his neck and felt how loose the leather strap was, eyeing the sword at the same time. Lord Rickard, hanging from his bound wrists, writhed to escape the fire but the flames grew higher. The sweat on his brow began to drip and as the fire caught his foot he grunted in pain, his jaw clenched.  
"Father." Ser Brandon shouted for him, sounding more like a frightened child than a man. Pulling the restraint around his neck he scrabbled forward. The noose tightened the closer he edged, his blistered, filthy hands stretching out in front of him.  
"No! Brandon!" The fire had travelled up the bottom of his grey cloak, the foot of his armour was glowing red hot and the lord shook with the effort to conceal his pain. Brandon edged forward still and let out a strangled cry. Lord Stark's cloak was completely engulfed by the blaze, travelling faster now because of the oil, the fire licked at his head and his skin began to burn, blistering in the heat. The King started to laugh manically, his yellow teeth glittering in the firelight. As his father's head caught alight Brandon lunged forward and was pulled back by the noose, the veins in his neck strained and his eyes streamed with tears.  
"Father!" He rasped. "Father, forgive me. Please." His voice was thin and weak, Arthur saw the burning, writhing figure reflected in his eyes. Lord Rickard's face was only partly visible and Arthur thought he saw a solitary tear crawl down his face.  
"Son.. I..." He coughed and then screamed. The chains rattled as he tried to flee but his face could not be seen anymore and now he was an orange flaming figure, contorting in agony, burning alive. His armour was white with heat as the blaze beneath him roared. Brandon let out a terrible wretched scream and pushing further still and the leather noose constricted again. Brandon was trying to speak but no sound would come but a gurgling from deep in his throat, his feet slipped on the floor as he reached out for Arthur's sword glimmering, tantalisingly close. As the leather grew tighter Brandon clawed at his neck and deep gashes appeared, blood began to stain his hands as he cut himself over and over, his nails tearing the skin apart. To Arthur's left Ser Jaime stood with a look of silent horror and others around the room either watched, transfixed with revulsion or looked away ashamed. Not one man said a word, a court filled with people, two hundred silent lips. Arthur wished he could look away, put his hands over his ears so that he may not see this sight when he tried to dream. The King's breath was disjointed and his terrible eyes were wide and the fire filled them. It was the only sound except Brandon's horrific gargling and the crackling of the flames. Lord Rickard suddenly stopped convulsing, the chains hung silent and Brandon cried out, putting another foot forward. This time his eyes bulged and his breathing, once ragged stopped. The room filled with the sound of him desperately trying to breathe with a furious sucking sound, his face turned purple with the strain and he fell to his knees heavily. Arthur took a step forward, he should save him but Lewyn caught his arm and shook his head. This was cruel, this was torture. He looked at his King who let out a shriek of mirth. _Mad._ _Rhaegar was right, this must end._ Brandon rasped and mouthed the word " _No."._ His hand stretched out weakly and fell he forward, hand extended, his feet twitched and then moved no more. Arthur looked down at the lifeless body of Brandon Stark, whose hand was inches away from the sword he would never hold. The smell of burning flesh filled his nose and no-one made a sound. Arthur saw Ser Jaime finally turn his golden head away and close his eyes in prayer or sadness. Arthur did not move, he was frozen. _Drip, drip, drip_.


	15. Lyanna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is now our characters diverge from one another in time and in place. Some chapters may lead on from one another, others will be told directly as others occur. Whilst the Sword of the Morning and the Martell Princess are trapped in the Red Keep, the Wild Wolf and the Lord of Winterfell's murders are heard in the North and Westeros begins to turn on its Mad King. Meanwhile in the south, far away in the Dornish Marches the Dragon Prince and his Queen of Love and Beauty begin down a different path.

"Gods be good is there a fairer man and woman ever to be seen?" A kindly old lady said as they walked through the doorway. The white stone inn sat on the aptly named Prince's Pass, the road that led from the Stormlands to Dorne and beyond the road the sun baked sandy seas.  
Rhaegar chuckled and Lyanna smiled shyly. She did not want to speak, her northern accent was strong and it would be unwise to reveal herself as a Northerner so far from the North. _I am so far from home, how many leagues as the raven flies are my brothers now? My father on his carved oak chair must wonder where I am,_ she thought _. Winterfell is for winter and it is spring, the sun shines brightly for me now.  
_ "We need food and ale my lady, if you can part with it for good gold." When he spoke a Dornish drawl poured from his sweet lips and Lyanna stared at him surprised as the old woman rose from the chair, blushing. She was plump and bronze. Her grey hair was tied in a loose bun at the base of her neck and her sun touched skin had begun to wrinkle. She was no Stony Dornishwoman, but clearly Dornish all the same.  
" _My lady_ , _my lady_ , by gods you are sweet boy." She led him by the arm to a table and he sat down with Lyanna beside him. He glanced at her and the woman busied herself with the food and Rhaegar winked causing Lyanna to beam brightly.  
"There's chicken or goose, which would you prefer ser?" she said happily smoothing back a few stray hairs, tucking them behind her ears.  
"Whichever my lady thinks is best." The woman blushed again and shook her head embarrassed. It seemed Rhaegar's charm did not only affect fair maidens and princesses.  
"What brings you to Dorne ser?" she called over her shoulder as she cut up vegetables and threw them in a pan.  
"Home. I am from Dorne, though I have not been back in a while." He said confidently, with a breezy air about the words as if he had said them a hundred times before. He did look a little Dornish, with his dark hair and pale gold skin.  
"Oh really? Whereabouts?" she called over her shoulder.  
"Starfall, by the Summer Sea."  
"Ah, beautiful place, visited there once when I was a girl. Aye, you wouldn't happen to be a Dayne would you? You've got the look."  
"No my lady, I am only a singer," He said, tapping the harp he had carried under his arm and placed by his foot. "No noble knight, I only sing songs of them and maidens too."  
"Would have taken you for a prince," Rhaegar smiled and Lyanna almost laughed, "forgive me ser for saying but I would place a bet we ain't never had a fairer man walk through this door. And you," She said nodding to Lyanna, "A beauty indeed." Lyanna smiled politely, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.  
"Who you blabbering to now woman?" A voice called from the stairs and heavy footsteps followed. "Oh" said an equally old man as he spied them sitting at the table. He was dressed in a faded deep blue tunic and a white shirt, well dressed for an inn keep. He was more Andal looking than the woman, with strawberry blonde hair and paler freckled skin.  
"This one's Dornish Rarl, 'ent he a sight." She said placing a hand on Rhaegar's cheek causing her husband to roll his eyes.  
"Don't feel too special lad, she says that to every man who walks through that door." The woman clucked disapprovingly and shook her grey head. "Time is meant to make a woman less amorous," He whispered to them, "Seems this one's all backwards. That's the Dornish for you." Lyanna sniggered slightly and the man laughed too.  
"They're from Starfall 'fore you ask." The woman told Rarl, not hearing his insult. The man sat beside them and let his wife sort their food.  
"Well I'm from Starfall, my lady is from elsewhere." Rhaegar explained to the man, "We are going to stay a while here, round the mountains. Do you have enough reserve to give us food for a moons turn or so?"  
"Depends, how good is your gold?" Asked Rarl, narrowing his eyes.  
"The best." Said Rhaegar with a smile, patting the coin purse that clinked as he touched it.  
"Well then we got all the food and ale you could need ser." The woman set down two plates of roasted goose, roasted onions, a loaf of bread and two flagons of ale.  
"There you are. Move along Rarl." She chivvied her husband along the bench so she could sit beside Rhaegar. She leant on her hand and stared at him dreamily. They began to eat and Lyanna had forgotten what truly good food had tasted like, their nightly meal would usually consist of whatever poor creature they could hunt during the day. The whole of Westeros searched for them and an inn on the Kingsroad was no place for either of them, they lay together under the stars most nights. The bread was still warm and soft, she breathed it in hungrily.  
"So why are you staying in the mountains? Starfall's probably more comfortable than a few rocks." This man would not be put off so easily, the inn was empty and perhaps they had not had many visitors of late.  
"A personal matter." He said, waving away the uneasy question with his confident charm. _I would have thought myself a great liar if I had never heard him do so, I almost believe him too._ "We will need bed linen too, if you can spare it. Candles and matches too. Of course all paid for. We will return every so often to buy more food from you and any other supplies we may need." Rarl nodded, eyeing the coin purse excitedly, all questions forgotten.  
"Are you married? You so look to be," Asked the old woman, ignoring their talk of gold and linen, reaching across touching Rhaegar's hand that rested on the table. "So fair, so fair!"  
"Annie, leave off will you." Rarl said rolling his eyes again grabbing her hand from Rhaegar's.  
"We are not, kind lady but if you know a man of the gods who may right this wrong we will be." Lyanna stared down at her plate, she wanted to smile so widely her face might split into a thousand pieces. Rhaegar took her hand in his and kissed it gently. Married, to a prince. It was a song a maiden would swoon to, but to live it was unbearable heaven.  
"Ain't that sweet Rarl? Well the nearest septon'll be at Skyreach. Top of the mountains, Rarl has need to go trade there in a week or so, we'll send word he is needed."  
"You are too kind my lady." He gave her a dazzingly smile again, his teeth pearls. _She might fall in love with him too, it is easier than breathing_ , she thought.  
"You 'ere that Rarl "my lady", feel like a right noble I do." Annie said merrily.  
"Shame you ain't got the gold of one then." The man got up heavily. "Let's leave them eat Annie, come on." She reluctantly left the room and her husband closed the door behind her.  
"I think Annie has taken quite a shine to you." Said Lyanna with a smirk.  
"Yes I think so too..." He mused his Dornish drawl faltering now they were alone.  
"Do you really wish it? Marriage I mean." He cocked his head at her. His hair was beginning to fade, where it had been jet black it was now a deep brown and at the roots his silver hair was beginning to grow again.  
"Of course I do Lyanna. I would marry you right now if I could. I would have married you in that tent on the kingsroad." He kissed her and she felt all worry melt away, she yearned for him to touch her to feel his smooth skin on hers. She pulled his face to hers, praying to any god that would hear it he would never let go. When they broke apart breathless she'd almost forgotten what they had been talking of.  
"But you are already married..." She said, a whisper. She had given more thought than she cared to admit for poor Princess Elia. _Alone and in failing health it was said..._  
"I know but not to your gods. Only to mine and they are barely mine at all." He said, spearing an onion on the end of his fork. _Could he be so careless for his sacred vows,_ she supposed she had been too. To be betrothed is a holy vow.  
"My gods? The Old Gods?" He nodded. "How will you convince a septon of the Seven to marry us in the eyes of the Old Gods?"  
"Give a man enough gold he'll do anything. Even holy men are not so holy."  
"Married to the Old Gods..." She had given up any hope she would say her words to her own gods beside a man she meant them to. It made it truer and there was nothing she felt for Rhaegar that was dishonest. "And the tower is not far from here?" she asked excitedly. He had told her of the old ruin they were to stay in. It was an old building, left to decay by the Andals as they tried to conquer Dorne but when the Rhoynar fled the war of Valyria to seek asylum in Westeros warrior Queen Nymeria married a Martell King, making him her prince. They ruled Dorne and set the foundations for every prince and princess the land had ever seen, they did not bend the knee to any Dragon King that came to claim them and so, were left to their ways as long as they accepted the true power of the King of Westeros. To hear Rhaegar tell the tale was as thrilling as it must have been to be there. She saw the raven haired queen in her mind, riding in gleaming armour on the back of an ivory palfrey across the desert.  
"Just a day's ride and then we will be free."

He wrapped an unruly curl around his long finger, winding and winding then letting it bounce back into place. Lyanna lay with the back of her head resting on Rhaegar's bare chest, sitting between his legs. The Dornish sun rose to warm the mountains and a breeze rustled the slender trees in the forest below the tower. A bird sang, calling for a mate. The sheet that covered them was the only thing either wore and she shivered as the wind came in through the window. She had blushed the first time he saw her, it hadn't taken long for them to strip the cloaks from each other. They took a room in a dark dingy inn and it was there that she gave her maidenhead to the dragon prince. A sweet burning sting and it was done. They looked at the blood on the sheet after. Such a fuss for so little. When she felt that building passion deep she had gasped and moaned but it only made him smile as she said his name with every gentle stroke. The bed and chair were the only things that had remained after hundreds of years abandonment, the Tower of Joy it was called then and it was for them. The bed was broken and flea ridden when they arrived it had taken several days just to fix and another trip to the inn to buy a feather mattress. He rubbed his hands down her arms and kissed the top of her head.  
"Cold my love? When the sun rises you will not be." He tightened his arms around her, they were strong and warm. In the sun his skin had turned a golden shade that only made his eyes look more violet. The dark dye had faded completely now and his silvery hair shone again silver-gold as ever. She turned and he bent his face to meet hers. He brushed his lips to hers but that was never enough, she pushed him in the pillows kissing him. _If only I had felt this way for the man I was supposed to love._ Her father had been wrong, Ned too, you could not grow to love a man, they were not roses to be tended and cared for but stone and steel, immortal and unchanging. She straddled Rhaegar, her legs wrapped either side of him and she felt him stiffen beneath her. It seemed neither would ever tire of the other ,when their lips touched and he was in her it was as if he had never been so before. She slid him into her and once he had spilled his seed they lay beside one another, breathing heavily and a fine film of sweat had appeared around his hairline. Rhaegar got up from the sheets and walked towards the tattered velvet chair that sat beside the window. The days were a dreamy haze. She could remember spying Storm's End in the distance from horseback and her heart beat furiously at the danger of being so close to Robert. _That was five moons ago, or four?_ It could have been the day before but time held no concern for them anymore. The wine, fruits and vegetables they ate had been brought from Rarl's little inn that lay just under a day's ride south on the Prince's Pass, beyond the forest. They hunted game together and usually caught a fat pheasant or a slow rising goose and each night they slept dreamlessly and content, swollen with love. Rhaegar stood framed by the window with the mountains behind him, his golden body was lithe and toned, and he was strong but not brawny. He used her brush to comb through his silver gold hair and let it hang in loose waves. It had grown an inch or so. _How long have I been here?_ He pulled on a pair of dark red breeches, not bothering with smallclothes and turned back to look at her lacing them slowly, smiling broadly. _If a man is steel then this one is Valyrian_ , she thought _._ His beard had grown too, his usually clean shaven face had thick golden stubble. He sat back down beside her, the bed dipping into his weight.  
"You look so troubled." he said, a deep crease of concern appearing between his brows. _How I love for him to touch me._  
"How long has it been since you came for me?" She asked and he pursed his lips in response.  
"Mayhaps two moons? No surely it cannot be that short a time..." He lay back his head in her lap thinking. She ran a hand over his hair, it was soft as down and silk, and it smelled of a faint spice, of him.  
"I wonder what has become of those we left." He looked up at her, for a moment then focused on something out of the window. _He must think of his wife and children, would I think him cruel if he did not?_  
"Who is to know. All I know is that I am here and it is all I want." People would notice she had gone, but no horses came galloping after them that night they left and none came the nights after. They had dressed in plain clothes and Rhaegar with his coloured hair, they were just another pair of travellers on the road together.  
"Yes but do you not wish to know about Aegon? Or Rhaenys?" He sat up and twisted so he faced her, taking her hands in his. He had barely mentioned his family as they travelled though he asked many questions of hers, he wanted to hear every story of Stark history from Bran the Builder to her brothers, though he knew them all already. When she had begun her own inquest he had been reluctant to speak, he would not use his wife's name until she demanded he did. _"She is your wife, we both know it. Let us not be fools, let us not insult her anymore"_ , after that he spoke of Elia, of their wedding day, of their fondness for one another. How she would run her hand up his thigh in longing only to be bitterly turned away, Lyanna had begun to pity her, not even touched by her own husband. Lyanna mused whether she had found solace in another bed, much like her husband had done, and she remembered that sweet timid face at Harrenhal and thought it unlikely. She wondered if his daughter noticed his absence, if she asked her mother when he would return for her, she pitied her too. Lyanna had lost her mother, she often wondered if she would have been a better lady if she had ever had one, though her father tried his best to mould her, her brothers always had a stronger hand. Would Rhaenys learn to live without a father? Would she merely forget what it was like to even have one and someday the memory of him would grow so distant his face would fade before her as if he was never there at all. What if they never returned and the Princess sits alone in the Red Keep, becoming an old woman, awaiting her prince's return. _A singer would surely make a song of it and a sad song it would be_.  
"Of course I do Lyanna, they are my blood. But I chose a different path, I chose you." he kissed her forehead lightly. "I love you, my sweet, bold Lyanna." she blushed and she felt her stomach jolt a little as if in the back of an unstable wheelhouse.  
"As do I. But how long can we linger here? Someone will find us and then..."  
"Then we will face the consequence of our affair. I would rather these few blissful moons of love than to have dreamt of you forever and not know what your lips taste of." he brushed a finger over them. "of what your skin feels like. Of how you would say my name when I am in you." He kissed her again and she blushed even more furiously now, his open talk of their love often had her an unpleasant shade of pink. "Let us ride to the stream, we can bathe." He left the bed and began to dress. She dressed quickly into cotton breeches, meant for a man and a tunic that she had ripped the sleeves from. The days were too hot for anything more, she laced boots and ran a comb through her long dark hair. They had bought another horse on their journey, a large shire with a gleaming chestnut mane and he stood grazing happily beside Rhaegar's muscled destrier. They mounted and rode the hidden path through the forest to a deep stream. The forest was slender trees and pale leaves and every so often a brightly coloured bird would flit between the branches. The stream was quiet and narrow but deeper than expected and she was waist deep in the cool clean water with slick mud and stones between her toes. It felt good to lie back, completely submerged, staring up at the swirling sky through the water. _I cannot promise that we will be together forever, it would be foolish to promise you that .But I could not stop thinking of you, even when I held my son in my arms._ He had said many words, he was so well spoken, he expressed every emotion he had in such a way that Lyanna never could. He was so well learned she sometimes felt a child in his presence. There was something though, a deep unrest within him yet he was peaceful and calm, more like an ocean than a fire and if a fire, it was a slow burn, a smouldering flame that could ignite great forests turning them to ash. _I will not make you stay, only tell you that if you leave I shall never know joy, the sun will not warm me and I will live a life in dreams of you._ They were words he'd told her as they lay in that dark inn together, her maiden blood smeared on the sheets beneath them. No man had ever spoken to her that way. _Maybe it's a southron thing_ , she thought. Her brothers with their brash accents and curses had never felt out of place but sweet words and sweeter looks unsettled her, even from him, she could not respond she did not know how. She came up from the water and he was lying at the bottom of the stream, the weeds tangling around him and his eyes were closed. His silver hair was a veil around him and he looked so at peace, so still. This place was hot and breezy, the birds sang and at night wolves howled somewhere in the forest, it felt like some sorcerers enchantment. Rhaegar broke the water's smooth surface, sending ripples lapping at the stony bank.  
"It is so beautiful here." She said as a flock of coloured songbirds cascaded from a nearby tree and flittered into the woods.  
"Not so fair as you." She smiled.  
"Well if Annie from the inn is to be believed you are fairer than I ,Rhaegar." He snorted, his beautiful face scrunched in disagreement.  
"Ah what would that old crone know? She is half-blind I would expect."  
"I am not blind though." She made her way toward him, her wet hair covering her breasts, the water rippling as she disturbed it. She brushed his hair from his face, his violet eyes seemed to sparkle brighter than any gem. "You are silver again." She said, stroking it back gently.  
"Did you prefer me dark? I still have some dye left, I made Myles buy it in King's Landing. The look on his face when I suggested I was to "try a new fashion" was a sight to behold." He chuckled.  
"No, no. I love you the way you were supposed to be." He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. She opened her mouth and felt his bristled stubble against her skin. It did not repulse her as it had with Robert. She had not told Rhaegar he'd kissed her, what good would it do now? They were here and happy and Robert... Robert was in his castle. _He will find another bride, a better one than I._ She wrapped her arms around Rhaegar and responded enthusiastically, her tongue greeting his and his hand finding her body under the still water.


	16. Arthur

The wood was cracked with age and the knots and rings of the oak stood out starkly from the deep brown. One crack was so profound that light escaped through, struggling its way through the door. Beyond it shadows passed, voices murmured and the light struggled on.  
Every man who'd held a sword had dreamed of being cloaked in white. He had, from the moment he'd heard tales of the Kingsguard, their brilliance and their valiant deeds. The day Ser Barristan had knighted him had been the proudest day of his life and he had beamed proudly as Ashara had shed tears of joy for him when she heard. No song ever told of how dull it was, no knight ever spoke of the monotonous guarding of closed doors. _An honour, the greatest honour a knight could receive_. He longed for the days of hunting outlaws, cutting them down with one fearsome blow, to hear Dawn sing as she danced, slicing the wind and flesh alike. The voices grew a little louder inside and his eyes flickered back to the crack on the door. The small council has been in session for an hour already, it seemed as though they were not like to finish before the moonrise. The King had not arrived on time and when Ser Arthur held the door open for him, the other members were already in heated discussion and were silenced by their King.  
"They will bend." The voice of the King was raised higher than the others. _He is wrath again, when he is not lost in dark thought he is wrath._ His son had been lost to him for near to four moons, he had not returned and though King Aerys had demanded to know every word of rumour, gossip and scandal the small folk spoke of there was no truth in half of it. No whisper of a silver haired dragon from any keep, castle or inn. Lord Varys was told that should he keep any secret, some spidery web entangling the truth from his King he would receive the same death as the Lord of Winterfell which caused the eunuch to quiver in his silken slippers and caused Arthur the flicker of a smile.  
"Ser Arthur." A voice called from within and he placed a hand on the door and pushed it open. The small council chamber was not small at all, with a long table covered in parchment and goblets. The windows were open to the balmy afternoon and below in the gardens a child shrieked happily and birds twittered in the trees. He closed the door behind him and stood in the doorway, awaiting orders. The King took the head of the table, one that he so often left empty with Rhaegar to fill it. Lord Gerold and Lord Varys sat furthest away from the King with Grand Maester Pycelle on his left. On his other side sat his newly appointed Hand, Lord Owen Merryweather. A plump simpering man with a smattering of white hair left upon his round head, he threw a grand feast in honour of the King when he had been named Lord Hand, bringing wine and fruits from the Reach. The sight of men feasting on tables set on the very ground where Brandon Stark had died mere weeks before made his stomach turn. _They were not there, they do not know_ , he told himself but he condemned them all the same. He did not touch a drop of wine nor a ripe berry at that feast. It was not wine these lords needed but a few ounces of common sense; whilst they feast on the earth's abundance the growing resentment amongst the people was palpable. They muttered and whispered their anger, even those who loved their King cursed him now and he knew it too. He would not venture beyond the gate, he thought someone would attempt to take his life though with his guard around him he had no need to fear but it seemed even the faintest whispering of the wind had King Aerys on edge in these dark days.  
"Stay." King Aerys said coldly in Arthur's direction. "Continue." He nodded at Lord Merryweather who was rosy cheeked and flustered beside his King. He eyed Arthur anxiously before continuing.   
"Thank you your grace. I have sent missives to every Lordly house we can, with word to spread."  
"And what would these missives say?"  
"That Lord Robert Baratheon and Lord Eddard Stark no longer have the alliance of the crown. They are traitors to the King's peace and outlaws and their heads are demanded by their King. Or arrested whichever would please his grace more."  
"I do not want these rebel lords in chains, chains do not kill their rebellion. Their heads on spikes would do better." _It would be unwise to anger these Lords anymore, they have caused plenty trouble as it is._  
"Of course your grace but we cannot write such things. It would be too... too..."  
"Honest." Said Lord Varys sweetly. Arthur almost laughed, a man speaking of honesty who knew so little of it.  
"Precisely." Nodded Lord Merryweather, his round head balanced on its multiple chins.  
"And what of the raven you sent Lord Arryn? What does the Warden of the East do?"  
"Nothing your grace. My birds have told no tales, only that Lord Jon is still at the Eyrie." Said Lord Varys. Lord Arryn was wise to stay in his high impenetrable keep, to venture out for any reason would douse him more in the foul oil of treason. King Aerys had demanded the new Lord of Winterfell come to King's Landing and pledge their fealty to the King and admit his brother's treason. Both Lord Baratheon and Lord Eddard were visiting the Eyrie in the East, Lord Jon and Lord Robert refused for Lord Stark to bend the knee, the murders of his family still fresh in their minds. Lord Robert had been wroth since Rhaegar and his betrothed Lady Lyanna disappeared, it is said his anger was more fearsome than Brandon Stark's. "It is the Lord of Winterfell and the Storm Lord I fear may cause many more problems your grace." The King flicked his head to the spider sharply, his long hair whipping with it.  
"Why so?"  
"There is word Lord Eddard is returning to Winterfell and Lord Baratheon has already returned to Storm's End." The King looked confused for a moment, as if he did not know what it meant. It is not a furious warrior in battle that is the most terrible, it is the serene man amidst the bloodshed. These men will calmly start a war.  
"They mean to call their banners your grace." Said Arthur. He should not speak. His Lord Commander gave him a reproachful look. It was not his place but every passing moment they did not act was dangerous, to let rebellion rise was a kin to leaving a fire unattended surrounded by kindling. The smallfolk beyond the keep, beyond King's Landing only needed a few false promises of glory, victory and a maiden's kiss and they would join any band of outlawed brothers who promised it to them. The Smiling Knight was the same. The men stared at him, the Grand Maester almost comical in his shock. King Aerys surveyed him with ice in his eyes.  
"You know this to be true Ser Arthur?"  
"No your grace I do not. But I know war." There was no sound now, the arguing men from earlier did not argue with him. The King took deep breaths that seemed louder in the suspense, he looked lost in deep thought. The last rebellion a Targaryen King had seen had almost wiped their bloodline clean, the realm was left with raw open wounds that still filtered down through history from when the Blackfyres made their claim on the Iron Throne. _But neither Lord claims the throne, they claim only justice. Am I a fool for my sympathy in their cause?_ They swore a vow to the King, to uphold his laws and keep their knees firmly bent. _A vow is a vow, they are made to test a man_.  
"Lord Fell in the Storm Land's has written of his outrage at Lord Robert's refusal to arrest the traitor Stark. He has said he will gather his forces with Lord Grandison's and Lord Caffern's to bring you his head. It is said he wants no outlaw overlord."  
" _It is said, it is said_ , many lords say many things but words are wind. Which lord will be true to his word?" demanded the King shrilly.  
"They will join at Summerhall and bring Baratheon's head to you your grace. He will not fail his most gracious and honourable King, I'm sure." Lord Owen simpered. Aerys stared at him darkly, his brow furrowed. Lord Tywin would not have given so many false compliments; he would have dealt this rebellious lord a swift blow. _A stag cannot kill a dragon, nothing can._  
"Let them meet in the ruins, let them bring me his foul head or they will answer for their failures in fire and blood." He stood swiftly, his heavy chair scraping across the stone floor and Arthur stood aside to let him sweep out the door. He nodded to the gathered lords and followed his King dutifully from the council.

The streets were hot and the smell of King's Landing only swelled in the heat becoming almost unbearable. The cobbled streets passed underfoot and heads turned at the sight of white cloaks. The King had ordered they seek out the whispers from the smallfolk so he and Ser Oswell had left Jaime with the King had ventured out into the city.  
"We won't hear anything, not with these cloaks on our backs." Said Oswell shaking his head. He was right of course, any man muttering about the Storm Lord or Lord Stark would quickly be silenced by the presence of the King's own guard. This would lead to nothing he did not doubt.  
"We must try, though you are right. We will return with nothing." They passed down an alley so narrow they needed to walk one behind the other, Ser Oswell leading the meandering way toward the docks. Any word from the Storm Land's would travel quickest by water, it would be the surest bet of true news. There were plenty of rumours in the drinking houses and whore houses, all spoke of Lord Robert's refusal to give the King Lord Eddard, and how he had raced across the land to his keep. As Arthur had suspected Lord Connington sent word Lord Baratheon had called his banners, though Lord Jon would not respond, his loyalty to his King, or _his prince_ was unwavering. Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden, Warden of the South had sent a raven he would gather his army to secure the Reach's border against the Storm Land's should Robert Baratheon decide to attack Highgarden. Arthur did not trust Lord Tyrell's command in battle but Mace Tyrell had assured the King that Lord Randyll Tarly was his Commander, which gave Arthur a little more peace. Lord Tarly was a fearsome warrior with a Valyrian sword, Heartsbane. He commanded men and their respect as he wielded his sword, with great power. The South would be safe in his hands.  
The alley opened up into one of many squares and market stalls had been erected all around. Children zigzagged through the stalls, chasing each other with sticks in place of swords as women carried bundles of flowers or trays of slightly burnt bread rolls, crying out to the people that bustled past. A child skidded to a halt in front of them, filthy and wide eyed with an expression of mixed horror and awe. Ser Oswell smiled but the child stared at Arthur with muddy brown eyes. He smiled too but the child cowered before racing off, wooden stick still clutched in his hand. He shook his head and looked around at the crooked buildings, some had glass for windows, others just open holes for light. In one open hole stood a maid, she brushed her long brown hair absent mindedly as she stared out at the square below. She wore a loose shirt that exposed a large part of her chest and her dark nipples could be seen through the thin pale linen. She stared down at them as they passed and caught Arthur's eye and smiled. He cast his head down, to watch his boots make their path along the cobbled ground and when he looked up again she was gone. He had given up that dream a long time ago, of a fair wife and children. He had given up his claim on Starfall and let honour be his only bride. When he was newly knighted he often wondered what his life would have been had he rejected the honour of the Kingsguard. He would be Lord of Starfall, he would sit in the seat his uncle now took. He would have been married to a Dornish Lady perhaps and they would have grown old, watching the glimmering tide of the Summer Sea erode the cliffs. But it was only his wonderings, not his dreams. He did not dream of maids anymore, he did not torture himself in that way as he had once done. To dream was only to tempt fate and his fate belonged to his King. They passed through another dim alley which opened up into a much larger square that bustled with even more life and a strong scent of fish. Fishmongers Square lay just before the Mud Gate which they were to pass through to reach the docks on Blackwater Rush, people bustled here too and fewer stopped to pay them mind, more often than not they dropped their eyes to the ground in respect or fear. _More likely fear_ , he thought darkly. The Commander of the River Gate Ser Tomas Waxley, a son of a noble house in the Vale, flanked by two golden cloaks of the City Watch allowed them passage through the gate and into the market and the docks beyond. It was early morning and the docks were stiflingly busy, with young men carrying boxes and baskets of the nights catch, new ships docking in with fruits of Highgarden or supplies from Oldtown, sailors, merchants, fishmongers and whores teemed, brushing past each other with a curse or a cry. A yowling cat here and there pawed hungrily at the new fish and he spied an angry fishmonger with a bushy moustache kick one forcefully from sight.  
"Where to start?" Asked Ser Oswell, looking over the heads of the crowded dock but they seemed to be given a wide berth by the smallfolk and only one or two wary looks. _More than like they think I will arrest them for whichever law they are breaking._ They seemed a head taller than all gathered and he craned his neck to see the ships anchored. He spied a ship with ivory sails, finer looking than the other fishing and merchant boats anchored a little way along and pointed to it.  
"There, that one. Were better of questioning those on pleasure barges and smaller ships. They will be more like to have travelled from the Storm Land's than the Narrow Sea. Let us make for that first and see what we find."  
"I do not wish to draw swords here Arthur." He said, eyeing the ship that swayed on the harsh wind brought across the delta of the river.  
"Neither do I, but I fear a little steel may loosen a traitors tongue swifter than a little gold." He readjusted the weight of Dawn on his back as they walked through the parting people. She would see no fight today, only the gentle touch of a coward's throat on hers if that.  
"Are they traitors? Can we be so bold to say so?"  
"If the King says they are then they are." Oswell furrowed his brow at that and moved along in silence again, his boots slapping heavily on the wet ground. The ship loomed up, it's tall sail deceiving of its relatively small size. A few men carried casks from the ship onto the dock, wine or ale, A flag beat against the wind, two golden trumpets crossed on blue, a gold chief with three black stags. He did not know the house, the captain must not be so high of birth.  
"A storm ship it seems." Muttered Oswell. "House Wensington." It made no matter, he still did not know the house but a ship sailed from the storm lands, possibly from Oldtown or Highgarden past Dorne would carry plenty tales. A youthful man with a cropped sandy beard and matching curls watched the unloading sailors lazily leaning on an anchoring pillar smoking a short pipe caught his eye. He had the air of a man who thought himself highborn but was most likely not.  
"The captain I presume." Said Arthur quietly. They made their way towards him and as he spotted them he straightened up tipping the contents of his pipe over the dock and into the water.  
"Good day Ser."  
"Good day sers." He stared at them apprehensively his blue eyes flickering between the two, bouncing back and forth as though he were scared if his eyes left them for a second the other might draw a sword.  
"Let us speak, where lingering eyes and curious ears will not disturb us." Said Arthur, gesturing a hand to the ship. Their presence was causing too much unwanted attention. _The King should have sent the eunuch in place of knights, we are no politicians._ The man seemed a little irritated to be ordered onto his own ship but led the way none the less.  
"What is your name ser?" Asked Oswell as they walked the narrow ridged plank to the deck, Arthur felt it bend under the weight of their armour and momentarily cast his eyes over the side to stare into the murky water below.  
"Karis Wensington Ser, second son of Lord Wensington of the Storm Land's. I assure you no unlawful behaviour has occurred on my ship, not enough to require the presence of the Kingsguard." The deck swayed beneath them and it had been a long while since he had felt the swelling in his stomach and felt the waves below him. Starfall lay on the Summer Sea and he had learned to sail just as well as he could ride except the Summer Sea was dazzlingly sapphire with bright coral and shoals of shimmering fish where the delta of the Blackwater that lead into the Narrow Sea was dark and dirty with the filth of the city. The ship was made of a dark wood and the pale white sails were wrapped around the tall mast, the Wesington sigil flapped above them and a gull screamed loudly as it perched on the top of the mast.  
"It is your ship Ser you may do as you please; it is your passage that we wish to know. From where have you come?" enquired Ser Oswell.  
"Lannisport over half a year ago, through the Reach, Sunspear and Storm's End to King's Landing sers. There is no crime in a sailor sailing." He replied defensively, he may have naught to hide but their presence made him anxious, Arthur had quite gotten used to having that effect on most people.  
"True words Ser. Did you return home on your journey?" Arthur asked as Karis Wensington rubbed his hands together fretfully.  
"For just a brief turn Ser Arthur. My father would have been wrath should I have passed through silent." _So he had returned home to Storm Land's in the last moons turn._  
"What word was there of your Lord?" Arthur stared at the man, holding his gaze steady. He could sense the tension in air between them now, he had heard something from his lordly father of Robert Baratheon but what did he know?  
"Lord Baratheon?" he asked, his voice thin.  
"Do not play a fool Wensington, you know of what we speak." Said Oswell darkly taking a step toward the young man.  
"I- I do not know, he called his banners is all I heard." His eyes scanned the dock, hoping the smallfolk in the market would save him from his interrogation but he knew more, he only needed a little coaxing.  
"It is a great crime to lie to your King and we are King Aerys voice, tell it true boy or feel an unpleasant bite of steel."  
"I don't- I can't.." He stepped back from them, his back pressed against the cabin wall, he looked about desperately for his men but they were nowhere to be found. Arthur rolled his eyes, he was tired of these questions, and they were futile. He reached across his back and drew Dawn in one swift movement, swinging her round to rest in the hollow of the man's throat. His eyes were wide and he breathed heavily, staring down his nose at the sword. To have Dawn back in his hand, where she belonged, he felt content even if she would not dance today.  
"Please, please." He pleaded, his eyes glassy. _He is a boy, from a low house, not even an heir, he is here by unfortunate fate._  
"Tell us all you know and you will be free to go. We will not give you to the King." Said Arthur and from the corner of his eye he saw Oswell glance at him confused, they had been told to arrest anyone with knowledge of Robert Baratheon but this boy was no threat, he did not deserve to rot in a black cell.  
"Lord Baratheon will ride for Summerhall sers, please that is all I know, please." Summerhall was where the Crown lord's were to gather, if Baratheon already gathered his forces and began to march upon Summerhall they would be crushed in the Targaryen ruins.  
"You are sure he makes for Summerhall?" probed Oswell.  
"Yes sers that is what my father said. I swear it by the Seven, Mother have mercy I know no more."  
"Very well Wensington." Said Arthur, removing the sword from his throat and resting the point on the wooden deck, Dawn was so sharp she began to sink through the wood as he lent his weight on her point. "I would sail with haste, we may have mercy but King Aerys may not, across the Narrow Sea would be safest, a storm brews in Westeros." Karis held his hand defensively on his throat and only nodded silently as he watched them make their way back through the market.  
"We should of arrested him Arthur, they were the King's orders."  
"I am the King's man to the bone Oswell, I would spill every drop of blood on this earth to shield his grace from harm but I will not watch another boy die. He does not deserve to die." Oswell sighed beside him.  
"None deserve to die Arthur, but death awaits us all."

He sat in the Maidenvault and the dinner was not as joyous as the last. It seemed the sickening sense that they stood in the midst of conflict had seeped in through even these thick walls. He sat opposite Princess Elia who had seemed to have become sicklier still, her skin sallow and her breathing laboured. Her thick dark hair had thinned, he wondered if it was with the stress of Rhaegar's departure. She was stronger than he ever believed, all eyes were on her to show weakness, to fall to her knees in a shower of tears but she held her head high and carried on, her paling face her armour and it was stone. She had not spoken another word to Arthur, beside her ladylike pleasantries, of Rhaegar or Lady Lyanna, he doubted she ever would. Rhaenys sat beside her, dark curls braided and swinging her legs in a bored manner under the table. Ashara patted her hand to make her stop and Rhaenys glared at her. Ashara had seemed rather weepy of late, her eyes seemed puffy even now as she smiled, and in fact every part of her seemed bloated, though he would never mention such a thing to a lady, even his own dear sister.  
"I do not want to be here." Rhaenys said bluntly and Arthur attempted to conceal a smile as her mother chastised.  
"Rhaenys, that is very rude to say. Especially in company." Princess Elia said tutting at her young daughter. She was dressed in a deep crimson dress that bared her shoulders; Arthur couldn't help but notice her collarbone protruding more than before on her slight frame and seeing her food untouched.  
"I don't care." Shrugged Rhaenys, balling her fists up defiantly. Her matching dress to her mothers had the three-headed dragon embroided in golden thread on her chest that glinted in the flickering light.  
"You should, it is no way for a princess to behave. Apologise to Ser Arthur immediately." She turned her glare to Arthur, her mother raising a dark brow and looking at her expectantly.  
"Sorry Ser Arthur." She said grudgingly.  
"No, that is not the way one should apologise. We have discussed this Rhaenys.".  
"My deepest apologises Ser Arthur." Princess Elia nodded, satisfied at her daughter.  
"Do not fret your grace; a few words will not cut me so deep." He said with a faint smile. Elia sighed into her goblet.  
"I try to teach her manners but sometimes she just as wilful as-" she stopped herself and took a prominent gulp of wine. _Would she not even say his name?_ Perhaps she thought it best to not bring more attention to his absence in the presence of their daughter.  
"As who mother?" She asked pushing a loose curl back with a chubby hand.  
"As no-one Rhaenys, hush." Elia brushed away the question quickly.  
"Who am I like mother?" Ashara glanced momentarily at Arthur and caught his eye during the uncomfortable exchange. The princess seemed to strain under the question and looked at Arthur slightly embarrassed. He lowered his head, he must turn a blind eye, this was not his place.  
"As your father." She said curtly. The words were clipped and sharp, pointed like daggers that cut only her.  
"When is father coming back?" The question made Ashara stare widely at her plate and caused the girl pouring wine to stop slightly. Even the singer playing his harp seemed to have quieted for the answer. But there was none. Elia gathered her skirts and rose from the chair, scraping it back on the stone floor.  
"Excuse me, Ser Arthur. The hour is late and I am feeling unwell. Say goodnight Rhaenys." Arthur stood as his Princess began to walk away but Rhaenys looked confused at her mother and was still sat in her seat.  
"But-" she whined, her cheeks flushing pink with frustration.  
"Say goodnight." Her mother turned back and said the words with such coldness the little princess did not argue any further.  
"Goodnight Ser Arthur. Lady Ashara." She curtsied as her mother did and ran after her, chasing her shadow across the room. Arthur cleared his throat uncomfortably, he longed for the hour he would stand watch and be silent, and so he could once more slink back into the darkness and leave the others to their lives. _I'm a watcher, a knight, nothing more.  
_ "I should go after her Arthur." Said Ashara grimly and kissed his cheek lightly as she too departed. He stood alone at the table, the food half eaten and cups undrained. The girl who had poured their wine stood uneasily in the corner and the harpist still plucked on, albeit half heartedly. He pursed his lips not quite knowing what to do, if he were Rhaegar he would have thought a witty comment to alleviate the tension, he would have said something to make Princess Elia stay _. I'm not Rhaegar, if he were here his children wouldn't ask after him and his wife would not be so heartbroken_ , he thought. _That romantic fool_. Even now the lords gathered across the realm, each plotting in their malcontent, each planning revenge on the other. The Lords at Summerhall would be wise to finish this rebellion before it started but now Lord Baratheon rode to meet them in battle, a war had begun. And that fool of a Hand, convincing the king all Robert Baratheon needed was a firm word, when the Storm Lord brewed in his castle, his men riding with haste to his side. That was the kind of man with fire in his belly and violence in his heart, he would claim a war for love but jealousy seemed more like. Someone like Lord Baratheon was not so used to a cruel slight from a woman nor was he so accepting of a better man. _Was Rhaegar really better if he stole Lady Lyanna away? What if she did not go willingly?_ He'd heard Aerys and his forceful nature with his own queen; could Rhaegar be a monster too? He chastised himself for that thought. _Neither Rhaegar nor your king is a monster,_ _remember your place_. They are disloyal thoughts, it is better not to dwell on such things.


	17. Elia

The hangings were black and silk with crimson dragons sown across, breathing golden flame into the fabric.  
Elia stared up at them from the bed and winced as she shuffled slightly in the sheets. Her legs were red and swollen, the joints burning beneath the skin and stiff. She had caught a chill in the last few weeks; it seemed so strange to her that as the sun burnt a little more brightly she should be so cold. She coughed, feeling the thick sludge like liquid bubble in her throat; she held her hand over her mouth and brought up a mouthful of it. It was dark, black and red _._ She let it slip through her fingers, watching it stain the sheets, it spread, bleeding into the white silk, tiny veins of red as the clots sat darkly, quivering on the bed. She wiped her mouth quickly and covered up the stained sheet with another, flinching at the pain in her elbows as she moved. _Mother have mercy, I cannot die this way._ Was this death at all, it seemed so slow and laboured, not the bloody battle of childbirth nor the glorious storm of swords, it was arduous and tiresome. _If I am to die then let me die in peace._ The sky was still dark and the capital silent in the night, she drifted back into sleep, only to dream of drowning in a crimson sea.  
  
When she woke it was light, a pale morning, pure as the Maiden herself. No black thought or words of war had spoiled this day yet, she wondered how many more days they would see so pure. _Too few._ What bliss was sleep when dreams were peace, only they seemed to no longer hold any peace for her, only drowning, only sorrow. There was a knock and she turned to see Ashara's head poke round the door. Her hair was tied in a simple braid that rested over her slender shoulder and she too was still in her night clothes with a deep purple dressing gown pulled around her shoulders.  
"The maester is here your grace." she said softly. "May he enter or would you prefer a moment?" He must be just beside her, Ashara never called her _your grace_ or _princess_ unless in company, how quickly those words became tedious, and they had quite lost their meaning. Elia pulled up the shoulder of her nightdress to cover more skin, she gritted her teeth against the stiffness of her joints.  
"Send him in Ashara." She nodded and Grand Maester Pycelle tottered in through the now open door. His chain clinked and clanked as he swept across the room his grey robe dragging across the rug. He stood over the bed, his watering pale blue eyes surveying her, bouncing back and forth in their sockets and bent his bearded face to her.  
"Good day princess." She nodded silently in return. "I must examine you, are there any new ailments? Any change from yesterday?" He touched her forehead with a wrinkled hand, testing her temperature.  
"No maester, all is the same."  
"Well the chill seems to have passed your grace, but I fear its damage has been done."  
"Is there no ridding me of these joint aches? Or the blood in my throat?"  
"I must consult with an elder at Oldtown for the proper medicine, he will be wiser than I, your grace." _If his elder is more skilled why isn't he the Grand Maester?_ she thought darkly. "Have you bled this moon princess?"  
"From everywhere but where it matters." She said bluntly, causing Ashara in the shadows to give the flicker of a smile.  
"Yes, yes quite right your grace." Said Pycelle, wringing his hands, the jest seemingly lost on him. "Four moons since Prince Aegon's birth and no moonsblood. I fear there will be no more children in your future princess."  
"To birth children one must have a husband to create them. As you are aware I am lacking in one of late, it is of little matter to me now." _He tells me that which I already know_. Three children, Rhaegar had always wanted three, two sons and daughter and now that was lost forever, just like he was. The dragon has three heads he always said, they had their Rhaenys and now their Aegon but it seemed there would be no Visenya for her to birth. A pointless wife she was if she could not bear children, it was no wonder he left for more fertile land. The maester looked uncomfortably at her words. _Good_ , she thought, _I have silenced at least one fool_.  
"Very well princess. Milk of the poppy then, for the pain. Until my elder sends his raven."  
"No I think not maester." His bushy white eyebrows almost disappeared in the crinkles of his forehead.  
"But-but princess you are in pain." He stammered. "Your grace must wish to relieve the pain in her joints."  
"If my mind is all that is left maester I would rather it be clear." She pushed herself upright, her elbows seeming to scrape together, bone on bone in their sockets causing her to clench her jaw tightly. Ashara stepped forward quickly as if to aid her but Elia held up a hand.  
"Elia please, if you will not take anything to ease your pain let us not pretend you do not feel it. Come maester, bring the wheeled chair, that will ease it a little."  
"I will _not_ use that wheeled chair. I will not go to court a cripple." She said defiantly. _I am no weak woman, that chair makes me a weak woman. I left my home for a kingdom that has shown me no love, I have birthed two children, brought them bloody and screaming from a body that did not want them and brought them forth from a husband who could not love me. I am no weak woman._  
"And I will not see you suffer. My sweet Elia, please. We will not go to court, we will stay in the gardens with your children. No-one shall see." Elia frowned. There was no reason she could not do that, but to use that wheeled chair, it was for cripples, for those too withered of body to walk. _You can't walk though_ , she reminded herself. "Princess." Ashara pleaded, her deep purple eyes filling with tears. Weak of body not of mind, she should take that as her words, mayhaps she would have a wheeled chair as her sigil though she doubted many would see the jest.  
"Fine." She resolved. "Fine. But I am a Princess of Dorne. The future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and if any lord or lady, man or woman should stare at those damned creaking wheels they will no longer have eyes to stare with, am I understood?" Ashara gave a weak smile, she knew Elia would not hold true to her violent claim. _My weakness is weakness, how fitting._ She sent Grand Maester Pycelle away whilst Ashara helped her dress, Elia waited in the bed whilst a bath was brought, steaming and sweet smelling, it filled the room with its fragrance. _What do they put in the water?_ She wondered, it smelled like the keep gardens, as Ashara helped her up, hooking an arm under hers she saw tiny violet flowers floating on the surface, some had withered from the heat of the water others merely floated serenely across the glassy bath. She began to slowly remove her clothes, each movement laboured and excruciating, maybe she was a proud fool to deny milk of the poppy. She removed her night dress, leaning her weight on her dear friend as she did, she stared down at her body, naked in the daylight. Her once golden olive skin was now sickly yellow and across her belly were the red and silver stripes of birth, where the child had grown and her slight frame had stretched. She carefully lowered herself into the water, causing her skin to prickle against the warmth. She never had a beautiful body like Ashara or other ladies, like Cersei Lannister, with their ample breasts and curving hips. Even when that girl was ten and one or so she had been a beauty. Elia's mother had ridden with Oberyn and her to Casterly Rock many years before, to discuss the betrothal of the Dornish royal siblings to the Lannister twins. She had heard Jamie Lannister was a beauty to behold with emeralds for eyes and a quicker sword hand than any. As they arrived Lady Joanna Lannister died in childbed, birthing that monstrous imp they named Tyrion, and as they rode through the gates of Casterly Rock, the Lannister twins greeted them in black, beside the Rock's castellan, their Lord father's brother. Lord Tywin would not meet with them for many days and Elia's mother grew furious with him. The man was grieving but she had no sympathy. _"A grieving man still has a tongue Elia."_ She'd said. The next day they had met Lord Tywin, he too was dressed in black but he did not weep, he looked on them with cold hard eyes and no warmth could be found in them or in his castle. He offered to betroth Elia to the imp babe and the Princess of Dorne had packed her things and left the same day. They rode back to Sunspear and their mother never forgot the slight. Not long after that Lord Tywin offered Cersei Lannister to Rhaegar and was denied, her mother revelled in that, _the sweet taste of bitter revenge_ she called it. She wrote to King Aerys offering Elia and his raven returned with a call to King's Landing. Elia had not been home since that raven came, she was wedded by the next moon and Lord Tywin watched on with his icy stare. She wondered what life would have been if she had married a golden lion in place of a silver dragon. When she saw that boy, cloaked in white, she often wondered what kind of husband he would have made, if he would have made a better man. Ashara poured a cup of the water over her head and began to rub some sweet smelling soap into it. She had used to have other ladies to do that instead but now she only enjoyed the company of Ashara and she seemed to not mind that they not surround themselves with other simpering ladies of court. She washed the soap out gently and began to brush through her wet hair with a comb. Where it had once been thick and strong, falling in lazy ringlets it now thinned, as Ashara brushed it, even with the softest of strokes Elia felt it falling from her scalp and when she turned in the water she saw strands of it strewn across the floor. Ashara gave her a pitying look, her purple eyes reminding her so of Rhaegar's it sliced her heart like a knife.  
"Elia-" she held up a hand to stop her, if she had to listen to one more sympathetic word, a condolence, a reassurance she would surely lose her mind. Ashara helped her rise from the bath and dress. She sat Elia in the chair Rhaegar used to sit in; the last time he had sat there it had been with Aegon in his arms. A different time it seemed, centuries apart. Ashara excused herself to dress and before she left she pushed the wheeled chair into the chamber, leaving it to sit opposite Elia. It seemed to stare at her, it screamed in the silent room. She turned away from it but from the corner of her eye she could see it still, all creaking wheels and unspoken failings. She stared out the window at the city, Baelor's Sept on its hill, it's crystal dome glittering in the morning sun, it stood in contrast to the Dragonpit, a ruin on Visenya's Hill to the east. It had fallen into disrepair, the last Targaryen dragon; a mutated mangled creature had died hundreds of years ago. Every Targaryen king since had dreamed of breathing life back into their colossal skeletons that lined the throne room but the gods had taken away the fiery creatures from the dragon kings. _It was for the bes_ t, she thought. Madness ran through the veins of a Targaryen as strong as the sun in the blood of the Martells. Madness seemed to touch them all, where some were fragile and dreamy, much like her Queen, for others it made them wrath and volatile, with moods that changed like the wind, that made realms bleed. Rhaegar was neither fragile nor wrath. He spent his hours alone yet seemed to acquire a great number of dear friends and allies, where some enjoyed life in the sun, drinking and merry; Rhaegar brooded in the starlight, preferring to sleep in the ruins of Summerhall than in a warm bed with his wife beside him. A knock startled her from her thoughts.  
"Enter." She called. Prince Lewyn strode in the bedchamber, his white cloak clasped firmly in place with two golden speared suns that shone brightly against the white scales. "Uncle." She smiled. His black hair was slicked back and his dark eyes twinkled kindly.  
"Princess." He bowed his head then cocked it much like Oberyn did. "You do not look well, does the maester advise you leave your chamber?" She waved away the question.  
"What Grand Maester Pycelle does or does not advise is not my concern. A princess does as she pleases, especially a Dornish one." He chuckled and sat himself in the wheeled chair opposite her.  
"Well said my sweet niece. One finds it is easy to forget where we are from, when we have been here so long."  
"Sunspear is never far from my thoughts Uncle, or far from my heart."  
"Nor mine Elia." He reached across to take her hand from her lap and place it in his own hands. Warm and still sun touched, as if no time had passed since the Dornish sun kissed him. "Your mother worries for you, my sister has made such a habit of doing that."  
"More like she has thought of some way to avenge my honour, though I fear even her schemes will not save her daughter's honour now." A true Dornish woman she was, sly and quick tempered.  
"Your honour is all your own Elia, it is your husband's who is lost."  
"Let us speak no more of honour and men who are not here."  
"Very well, I have a letter, a raven. Oberyn's seal." He took a rolled parchment from beneath his cloak, it bore the unbroken seal of a red viper.  
"He's such a strange man my brother, he does not wish to be called a viper yet I seem to think he revels in it." She broke the red viper in half between her fingers and unrolled it on her lap.  
 _"Dear Sister,  
I must apologise for not writing of late, though I know you must have wondered if my poor raven had lost its way.  
There is much I wish to say to you but by letter it is unwise, we have heard in Dorne of your husband and his supposed crime, also the deaths of the Lord of Winterfell and his son. You know me well, I have my words to say but the only ones I shall put in writing are 'Come home.' There are foul things afoot in the Red Keep of late, bring your children, bring whatever you please but come to Sunspear. I love you and I fear for you sweet sister. That fool Lord Robert has started a war for a woman he has never had but do not trouble yourself with such things, be home and be safe with your dear brother. Tell me what you hear of war, I heard Lord Robert rode with haste to his stormy keep to call his banners, what truth is there in this?  
You asked of my children as I asked of yours, Obara is strong and robust as before, she wields a spear better than any boy, and she has my blood strong in her. Nymeria will be as beautiful as her mother I can see it clear as day and sweet Tyene, almost Lannister in her looks though she will make Lord Tywin's fair daughter look a peasant one day. Sarella is still a babe but dark as the Summer itself, she bawls like a no other, mayhaps she isn't mine at all, how can one so loud ever be so sly? I know you will ask as you always do sweet sister "But dear Oberyn, where is your wife? All these children and not a wife to be had!" No bride still sister, there are women aplenty in my life. Arianne is well too, she has a sharper tongue than I it seems, how sweet a princess she is.  I do have reason to believe Mellario is with child, it seems our brother has done his duty once again, it is only my suspicion but I am a great judge of when a woman has a babe in her belly for I have put so many there myself.  
I miss you terribly Elia, though my beautiful daughters fill my time with joy there is always an empty place in my heart where my dear sister should be. Mother is furious with the dragon prince, when word reached Dorne of his doing there was outrage, Doran advised me it would be unwise to make my presence known in the search for your husband, given the fates of the Starks.  
Tell me you are well, tell me you will return to me and our home. You belong in the sun Elia, Dorne is where you belong.  
Your ever-loving brother  
Oberyn"  
_ "What word?" Lewyn asked when she looked up again.  
"He thinks Mellario is with child." He raised his thick dark brows and smiled again, he was still a handsome man. His paramour clearly thinks so, she remembered the woman's voice through the wall.  
"Again? Doran will be so pleased."  
"Yes, he does dote on sweet Arianne." The girl had come to court when Rhaenys was born, held her in her own small bronze arms, she wondered if they would grow to look alike, if they would grow to be sisters.  
"What other word?" he probed, his white armour clinking lightly as he reached out for the letter.  
"He worries, as does Doran and of course my mother. I pray to the Seven that you all stop, you shall all worry yourselves into early graves." She sighed handing her uncle the letter to read for himself.  
"He is not wrong Elia, maybe it is time to return home." He said, his black eyes darting across the page.  
"King's Landing is my home, my children's home and my husband's home. What if Rhaegar returns and I am gone?" It was a foolish thought, she knew it but it was what binded her here. Should he never return the Red Keep, the murderous King and his broken Queen were all her children would ever have left of their Targaryen blood. That only made Dorne even more inviting.  
"What if he doesn't return Elia? Will you wait forever in this stinking city for a man to return from the bed of another woman?" The words were harsh and blunt, she felt them slap her across the cheek like a frozen wind. She turned her head back to the shimmering roof of Baelor's Sept and prayed silently. _I will wait_ , she thought. _I will wait._

The firelight caused the shadows of the lords feasting below to twist and contort across the walls. She sat beside the Lord Hand Merryweather, his forehead sweating, beads of moisture slipping down from his hair into his brows. Rhaenys had been sent away to bed with Viserys, the hour grew late but the King would not dismiss them, though he had barely touched his own food. Lord Jon Connington had arrived that dawn bringing word that the Storm Lord was about to clash with the Crown lords that day. He sat along the dais from her, when her eyes met his only a cold gaze greeted her. Jon Connington had never held love for her, Rhaegar was his dear friend she'd thought it was because he was jealous of the time she stole from them but she had begun to believe it was something _more_ he was envious for. Some men lay with whores, others with boys but only fools dream of princes, _I am a fool then_. A valiant warrior he was, riding into the keep on his white palfrey he'd said the Crown lord's were doomed and Lord Baratheon would crush them in the ruins. The King had been wrath to hear it, his veins pulsating in his temples, the whites of his eyes startling. They awaited news of Summerhall and the room had no laughter, though it had not done in a while. When had she last laughed? She could not recall when she did not feel so sad, so empty. She looked at the vacant seat Rhaenys had left beside her and guilt flooded her, it was unnatural that her children could not fulfil her, she loved them desperately but she should be raising them with her husband beside her not alone. When she had seen him bathed in the crystal light at Baelor's Sept, it had been the single most blissful moment of her life. Every woman in the world wanted him to be hers, from the ladies of the North to the noble women across the Narrow Sea but he was hers by oath and by love. She had never wanted anything more. He had. Ashara had said she was in mourning, but Elia thought that was foolish.  
"How can I mourn a man that is not dead?" she asked coldly.  
"He may not be dead Elia but any love between you is." She placed a hand on Elia's sweetly. "If he returns, can you ever love him again? When you know so clearly he does not love you?" She had turned from her friend at that. No other would have been so bold to say such a thing but Ashara was right of course, she always was. She always told Elia the very thing she could not tell herself, in that she was a true friend. But Ashara too would leave her soon, she said it was for her safety, for her longing of home and the breeze of the Summer Sea in her hair but Elia saw through that. Ashara had swelled slightly around the middle and wept more than anyone Elia knew could. She could tell the signs of a woman with child, she had been one not so long ago, she silently decided not to speak it, if Ashara did not want to admit it until she was far from King's Landing or far from her brother, whichever she feared more, Elia would honour that wish. Maybe her lust for Brandon Stark was a little more than just lust, or maybe it was another's? What did it matter of Brandon Stark, that poor boy was dead. So young and handsome, the fire in him had been quenched, with nothing left but withered ash and bone. Mayhaps Ser Barristan finally unlocked his righteous belt of chastity and taken what he so desired to take? She doubted it even more, eyeing Ser Barristan standing dutifully behind his king, shoulder to shoulder with his Lord Commander. She took a sip of wine and felt the thick bloody liquid in her throat as she gulped, tasted the iron on her tongue, a constant reminder of how frail she felt _. I am not so weak of mind, not yet_. She was not an old decrepit crone as the maester and every other member of court seemed to treat her, she was still a Princess of Dorne, the future Queen, she was still sane which is more than she could say for her own king. It seemed all waited for her dramatic downfall, her weeping, begging pathetic fall from grace, for her to play the scorned woman. _Seven hells with the court._ What did they know of honour? Or family? What did they know of love? _What do I know of love, truly,_ she thought, _the only man I love couldn't bear to touch me._ He loved another woman more and let the whole world know it. That girl, unspoiled and pure, with the moon in her skin and the night in her hair. Lyanna Stark was a lunar beauty where Elia was a scorched flower, dried out and left to die. _What if I die? What if I want to?_ Two beautiful children, endless amounts of gold, a throne, to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms but nothing could fill the void that Rhaegar had left.

Ashara slipped into her bed that night, they held one another close in the dark. They were sisters, if only blood would bind them. Maybe she would suggest Ashara marry Oberyn, she was sure he would be satisfied with such a beautiful woman, though she was only one woman and he did like to have a selection.  
"I've just spoken to Arthur," She whispered, the night beyond their high window was starless and black. "He brings word that the Crown lord's have fallen. Lord Fell was cut down in battle and Caffern and Grandison have been taken prisoner to Storm's End." Elia sat upright in the dark, her heart beating furiously.  
"Gods be good, it cannot be true." She said breathlessly.  
"He says Robert Baratheon is marching to the Reach."  
"The Reach..." The night was still black beyond the glass but it was no longer peaceful. It was blood and death. Blood has been spilt upon the earth, men have died with a sword in their hand and a woman's name on their lips. "So it has begun."


	18. Rhaegar

He smoothed the black paste between his hands; it was thick and grainy, speckled with brown. He stared at his reflection in the broken mirror, a crack ran across his face and another across his throat, a single candle burned beside him in the dark room and in its light he was ghostly. He put the paste on his hair and began to rub it through, covering the silvery mass until it was black. He rubbed it into his brows and mixed more of the grainy powder with water and massaged it into his beard. His eyes watered at the smell and he felt his scalp begin to itch terribly as the paste did its work. It wouldn't take long; even a fleeting moment on his silver hair would stain it but that is what he wanted, that is what would keep them safe. He did not want Lyanna venturing out into the woods alone, that inn may be safe, the innkeeps pleasant enough but one never knew what kind of man would saunter in through the door looking for a pretty girl just like her. The thought of it made his blood boil and he moved from his scowling reflection in the mirror to the ragged velvet chair in the arched hole that gave way to the sweeping landscape of the valley below as another mountain thrusted its way from the earth just beyond that. The Prince's Pass lay just behind that mountain _, it is not far enough_ , he thought. _How long until someone spies the old ruin has a fire in its hearth? How long until they become curious and ride towards it with haste?_ He scratched his wet beard, feeling the paste beneath his fingernail, feeling the grains scrub at his skin. The trip to the inn would take two days if he rode without rest; they were low on wine and grain. Lyanna had made some sort of flat bread, baked on a hot stone over the fire and they had become very fond of it but their supplies were low and it had been many moons since they had ventured back to the inn. On the farthest mountain from his eyes he spied the glowing tower of Skyreach through the clouds, its spiralling spear even higher than the dizzying peak it was built on. The wardens of the mountains must see their glowing fire too. He got up quickly and strode towards the candle flickering against the breeze from the night and blew it out with a single sharp breath. He watched the wisps of smoke curl into the air from the wick. The wind swept through the stone window and he felt his skin prickle against the cold from the mountains. Lyanna shuffled in the sheets behind him, wrapping them closer around her, her hair a dark tangle on the pillow concealing her face. He checked the dye in the mirror; his hair was slick and dark even in the pale moonlight. The moon hardly lit the sky at all, a waning crescent, soon the night would be black again with only the swirling constellations above to alleviate the darkness. There was a small stream that ran by the bottom of the steps to the tower, a long walk down but he did not mind. He grabbed an unlit torch from the bracket and lit it quickly with a match. The room filled with orange light and he grabbed a cup and his sword belt before quickly closing the door behind him, before the light woke Lyanna. The crumbling staircase spiralled downward to the open hole that must once held a door but now was nothing but empty stubs of hinges. He thought of the Andal kings, plain in feature and fierce in nature, watching Aegon the Conqueror ride his fearsome dragon Balerion the Black Dread over the high peaks, how the fire must have set their hearts ablaze with fear. He had imagined himself a king astride a dragon once, but now he was the Andal fleeing to protect what he loved and his father the Targaryen riding a monster. Westeros was never theirs to take, they were but the dragon lords on their stone before the conqueror landed on his high hill beside his sisters. The first dragon king, who burnt Westeros to ash, melted kings in their keeps, killed and killed until no man had but a choice than to bend the knee. The night opened up before him as he descended the stone steps to the base of the rock the tower was built into, he could hear the stream trickling below, and further still could hear the thundering of a great waterfall he was yet to find. The torch burned brightly against the night and crackled with every jolt of his hand, the oil soaked cloth glowing. He came to the narrow ankle deep stream running past the tower, he watched it gush smoothly over the rocky bed and brushed his hand over the brightly coloured flowers that flourished on its tiny banks as he knelt. He dug the torch into the soft earth and belted his sword around his hips as he washed his hands first, his skin prickling at the cold water; he watched the water turn grey when he scrubbed the remainder of the paste from his hands. His golden ring glimmered in the torchlight, a Targaryen crest, the three headed dragon with tiny rubies for eyes. His father had taken it off running that too through the water, feeling the dent on his finger where the ring had sat unmoved since he was four and ten, the day his father had pulled it from his own finger and thrust it into Rhaegar's hand without a word was the day he had first attended a council meeting, sitting meekly in a corner. He placed the ring beside the torch and bent down, taking hold of the cup to begin cleaning the hardening paste from his hair. It was dull work, seeming to take half the night, the water from his head only seemed to run clear as a pale light appeared beyond the mountains, a telling sign he'd put too much in. Either that or needed a deeper stream. His face was sodden and his fingers crinkled but when he poured another cup of water over his head it remained clear as it trickled back to the stream. He wrung out his hair and pulled the still burning torch from the earth, dipping that too in the water, hearing it hiss as he did. The sun would rise by the time he reached the tower; there would be no need of fire then.  
The sun rose, lifting its blazing head over the mountains to fill the valley with its light, the birds sang in their trees, calling, calling. An eagle, with wings of dark gold took to the sky, circling above him, its great wings catching the currents and soaring overhead. He unbuckled his sword belt as he reached the uppermost chamber of the tower; Lyanna had turned away from the door in her sleep, so her dark hair was all he could see of her, the outline of her figure beneath the blankets, the curve of her waist like the valley between the mountains. Her shoulder rose and fell as surely as the sun crept skyward to the East and set slowly in the West, with each breath, her life and he knew he loved her. She needed no crown of roses to bind them, no golden purse or whispered wind of a promise to an unseen god, he loved her and he knew in his heart she loved him. He walked to sit beside her on the bed, feeling the uneven wooden slats bend beneath his weight, he lay, brushing the hair from her shoulder and placing a kiss on the warm skin of it.  
"Let it be not morning," she sighed sleepily. "For I had the sweetest dream." She turned, the blanket wrapping with her.  
"No sweeter dream than the day could bring for us." She rubbed her eyes, opening them to him and staring startled.  
"Your hair," She pinched a lock of it, twisting through slender fingers. "It is as if I lie to sleep with a silver prince and wake with a dark stranger, yet they are brothers, twins, with the same eyes and voice." He took her hand in his and lent in to her, so that her golden eyes were so close he could see the wintry flecks of grey in them, like a summer snow swirling through the autumn leaves.  
"And kiss." Her mouth met his, her lips were soft and mouth an endless cavern of which he could never tire.  
"And kiss." She agreed. When they pulled apart from one another, breathless and unsatisfied Lyanna rested her raven head on his chest, rubbing her cheek against the thin silk he wore. "I suppose this means you will leave me."  
"Only for a day or two, no longer." He reassured her, placing his hand on her hair, stroking it softly.  
"And we cannot go together?"  
"It is not safe for us to be seen, we must stay hidden."  
"Then it is not safe for you either my love. Rhaegar please, I cannot stay locked away in this tower forever." How he wished he could lock it but those iron locks had rusted long ago. _At least then I would be sure._  
"For now, you cannot venture away. When all is well we will take a ship across the Narrow Sea, we will see the great Free Cities and live in peace." He kissed the top of her head, pulling her tighter. "But for now, for now stay. Stay so that when I am gone I do not fear for you."  
"Why would you fear for me at all?"  
"I fear for all that I love. Life is but a fleeting moment, to be lost to the bite of steel, the fever of disease or the slow turn of time. I will not lose you a moment before I must, I cannot, I will not." Her lips found his once more and his eyes closed to the rising sun and there was only Lyanna. She sighed and did not break away to answer.  
"Then I shall stay." She whispered.

The trees blurred past him, brown birds with green leafed wings, as he felt the cold wind rush past him, throwing his cloak out billowing behind him. Raider had grazed idly for many weeks and now galloped eagerly through the forest paths, snorting as he thundered across the earth. Night would fall before he reached the inn, he had wished to leave sooner but Lyanna had been convincing in her pleas. The sun began to set as the tower disappeared behind him and as night fell the trees began to thin and the path widened. Smoke rose not too far in the distance and he kicked his heels into the horse's flanks, spurring him faster. The trees were thin and the inn with its glowing windows and smoking chimney was a shining beacon in the dark. He dismounted with a flourish of his cloak yet keeping his dragon hilted sword obscured, it would have been wise to leave it behind in place of one of a subtler nature yet in his haste to reach Lyanna he had not thought of it. He looked about to see if any watcher spied him leaving the safety of the forest but there was no sound and only a lonely green snake meandered through the thin branches, winding its way around the leaves. He led the horse by the reins to the stable at the back of the inn, it was dark with no torch and only one occupied stall, a chestnut palfrey nibbled on hay, its head hung over the door. It must belong to a rider; he leaned over the stall and saw the horse was well saddled, polished leather and shining stirrups. He closed the stall door behind him as Raider began to eat his own hay, Rhaegar's saddle on the floor beside him. He gave the horse's nose a loving pat and walked towards the entrance of the inn, its windows glowing and chimney smoking. The door stood ajar to let in the breeze on the warm night and as he entered he heard a squeal of delight.  
"Oh you've come! You've come!" Annie rushed over, rosy cheeked and wiping her wrinkled hands on her apron. "Come sit, Rarl will get everything prepared, have some stew whilst you wait- and bread, and ale." She pushed him onto a bench further along the table than Rarl who was pouring wine for a cloaked man. The inn was fuller than he had seen it, with a few women chatting in a corner and a group of men laughing raucously by the fire. "Merchants from Skyreach," Said Annie as she placed a bowl in front of him, "Their only here for the night."  
"I haven't heard word of this, none at all." Said Rarl loudly to the cloaked man beside him. Rhaegar turned to listen in as Annie walked over to stand beside her husband, placing a bread roll in front of the man.  
"Well I'm sure them high lords in their iron thrones made of bones have heard it but the likes of you ain't." His voice was deep and had a rasp to it, as if he had eaten sandpaper as a boy. He had long dark hair that hung in greasy locks over his face and a thick layer of ashy stubble clung to his thick jaw.  
"Meaning what?" asked Rarl offended.  
"Meaning we ain't worth more than what King Aerys fills his chamber pot with, so why the bloody hell would you know anything?" the man snatched the roll from the table, ripping it in two with filthy hands.  
"Are you going to share your word ser or are you going to insult us a little further?" Annie said, with her hand on her hip defiantly.  
"Alright, alright keep your hair on lady. So I take it you heard of the Lord o' Winterfell and his heir?" Rhaegar turned now, making no farce of his eavesdropping. He had heard no word of King's Landing, not of his wife or children or his kingly father.  
"Of course, even that gruesome news reached us." Rhaegar stared hard at the table, his curiosity reaching soaring peaks. _I must know_ , he thought, _I must know_. Rhaegar cleared his throat.  
"I have not ser, tell me that tale before you tell any other." He called down the table and the man turned to him slowly, narrowing his dark eyes.  
"Where in seven hells have you been? That is all most folk talk of." His voice was slow and suspicious, he watched Rhaegar for a moment before Annie spoke.  
"He's from the woods he knows not of much, tell the fair man your tale so we can hear the other, be quick about it mind."  
"Very well, very well, though if your wine were half as good I'd tell you naught at all." With a stern look from Annie he turned to Rhaegar, pushing his hair from his muddy eyes. "Well do you know the dragon prince stole the Lord of Winterfell's daughter?"  
"Of course." _I know because I did it_ ,he thought, though the word _stole_ caused him anguish. _As long as I let the blame rest on my shoulders Lyanna is safe, she is innocent._  
"She was at Storm's End, ready to marry her betrothed Lord Robert and she was travelling the King's Road to see her brother Ser Brandon marry the daughter of Lord Tully."  
"Ain't right for a high lady like that to travel the King's Road alone."  
"She weren't alone Annie, don't be a fool." The cloaked man ignored the old couples exchange and continued.  
"The dragon prince had fallen in love with her at Harrenhal it's said, her wild beauty captured his heart. More like her fair bosom captured his prick than her fair face his eye." Rhaegar clenched his jaw tightly and felt his nails scrape at the wooden table. "Anyhow he heard word of her travelling without her husband to be so left with haste to take her for his own. Her handmaid heard screams and the dragon prince had the Northern lady at swordpoint, she protested claiming her love for Lord Robert but he carried her off into the night." _How the tale has changed,_ he thought. Commonfolk were fiends for gossip, the more scandalous the better. "When her brother Ser Brandon heard of this he turned his back upon his own wedding and rode with his kinsmen to the Red Keep and tried to duel all of the Kingsguard, the bloody fool."  
"All seven?" Asked Rhaegar aghast. Brandon Stark had been cocky, almost arrogant but he was not a fool, to fight seven men at once was a challenge for any but all seven white knights was a death wish.  
"All seven. He was thrown in a dungeon and tried for treason." He took a bite of bread and chewed laboriously.  
"What treason did he commit?" asked Rarl, pouring more wine for the man.  
"He wanted the head of Prince Rhaegar for the dishonour he had brought on his sister. A worthy cause but poorly executed. The King demanded the fathers of the knights come before him and pleaded for their sons lives but the King is no longer himself. Some more than whisper that he has lost his marbles. He's taken a crueller nature than a King should, a monster I've heard him called." Rhaegar did not flinch at that, he'd called his father a monster long before others knew he was, the bruises he left on his mother were cause enough for such a name. "The Lords came for their sons and the King had them burned, all of them. The Lord of Winterfell was locked in chains when he came too, and when he refused to accept the King's word that Prince Rhaegar had not taken his daughter the King burned him alive, cooked in his armour." Rhaegar stared silently and wide eyed at the man. _He is mad_. "Then he wrapped a noose around the son's neck and put a sword at his feet and said "Reach that and you can cut down your father and live." 'Course he didn't, he choked before he could touch it." He thought this man must be a liar, this tale was too terrible.  
"He killed them..." Rhaegar said shocked.  
"Killed ain't the word being used. That would be _murder_." _Murder_ rang with truth but still left a bitter taste, like to make him vomit. What tranquil serenity they had known in their tower, when Lyanna's own kin had been murdered as they kissed.  
"We know this, now tell the tale you came to tell." Moaned Rarl loudly and others turned from their meals to listen too.  
"New word is the King demanded the new Lord of Winterfell, Eddard to come pledge his fealty but he was in the Vale with Lord Robert and Lord Arryn refused it. Lord Robert rode back to his castle and called his banners in rebellion as Lord Eddard returned north. The Storm Lord clashed with the Crown Lord's at Summerhall, he slaughtered Lord Fell, taking his son, Lord Caffern and Lord Grandison prisoner. He rode for the Reach but Randyll Tarly had the command and was ready, the battle was over before it began. The Storm Lord turned his tail and he rides with his army back North to Lord Stark and Lord Arryn."  
"Gods be good, leaving his own land to ruin?" Annie clutched at Rarl's arm, tight with fear.  
"Stannis Baratheon is castellan of Storm's End but last I heard Mace Tyrell has it under siege. They'll starve before this war is done." Said the man lazily. He seemed to be enjoying relaying the news, no doubt he had told it to every inn he had stopped at.  
"So it is truly war?" asked Rarl, his voice was dark and deep, no longer kindly, a deep crease appeared between his brows and his eyes were heavy with concern as he turned to look at his wife.  
"All but the Dornish and the Lannister's have called their banners." Tywin Lannister was not one to lie so docile in his castle, he was too proud and too powerful. Though he supposed Tywin dare not kneel before the wrong man, should Robert Baratheon be made a head shorter and the Lannisters had given him their allegiance it would be the excuse Rhaegar's father had always prayed for. He was sure every single god, old, new, drowned had heard Aerys' prayers for Lord Lannister's death. Envy could drive a man to madness.  
"Lord Tywin has not acted?" asked Rhaegar.  
"No ser, not a whisper from the Rock." The man took a gulp of wine, draining his goblet.  
"Terrible news," said Annie shaking her head. "I pray that the Mother has mercy on us and keeps the war to the North."  
"Well if the Dornish hold their tongues you might not need pray." Rarl stared narrow eyed at the man, lingering on his thick featured face. There was something uneasy about this cloaked figure, Rhaegar thought it only his own nerves in the presence of people who may recognise him but seemingly Rarl sensed it too. To know all this, to tell this tale he must have been a bannerman of some Lord or a hedge knight in his service, whichever it was he had abandoned them, leaving them to go to war without him _. A craven with a sword_. Rhaegar spied a sword belt about his waist as he refilled his wine from the flagon on the table.  
"Rarl," Annie called from beside the fire. "Get the singers things will you, he'll want to leave right away like before."  
"Aye, right you are." Rarl tore his eyes away from the cloaked man and took the empty flagon with him as he left. Rhaegar stared at his food, where he was once ravenous a nauseating feeling now filled him. Murder and rebellion, had the world beyond him descended into madness so swiftly? He stared at the crackling flames licking at the black fireplace, he heard the laughter of the men behind him and the tittering of the women all too loud in his head, the room was swelteringly hot, and he felt his forehead begin to sweat. He glanced at the man and saw him staring, he turned back to his untouched bowl but felt the man's eyes on him still. _How can I tell Lyanna that my father murdered her own father and her brother? How can she love me? How will she stay?_   Rarl came back with two great sacks of food and wine, Rhaegar took them from him, thankful he could leave.  
"Don't worry yourself boy." He said patting Rhaegar's shoulder. "It is a thousand leagues from here, what games the high lords play is none of our concern." Rhaegar smiled and nodded, taking the bags and heaving them to the door.   
"You'll return to us soon?" Called Annie from across the room.  
"And it will as if no time has passed, my lady." He bowed his head to her and left the inn, the wind rolling off the soaring peaks hit him in face and he revelled in the coolness of it. He set the sacks down by the door of the stable and lent back against the wall. Ivy covered it, climbing higher and higher and Rhaegar felt the furry leaves on his neck. He stared up at the black sky, moonless and starless. He put his head in his hands. "What have I done?" he whispered. He prayed noiselessly for some saviour, that the Lord of Winterfell might come walking through the trees toward him but there was nothing. He was dead, his son too. Lyanna's heart would break and she would never forgive him. _Should she leave, I must follow and what fate would await her at the hands of Lord Baratheon?_ He did not fear the drunken oaf with a hammer but he remembered Eddard Stark's cold gaze, he'd felt it turn to ice on him as he sat beside his sister at Harrenhal. He walked into the stable dragging the bags and Raider snorted at his scent. He saddled him and tied the bags to it. What would he give to write to his uncle, Aemon always gave wise council, how he wished he had stayed at the Red Keep and given his father council instead he was at the other end of the world, the frozen hell of the Wall called to him for one reason or another. He had told Rhaegar something years before when he confessed his fears of being King, of the heavy burden the crown placed on his shoulders. _I will tell you only what I told your father; only men can rule, kill the boy and let the man be born._ He thought he had killed the boy the day he took up arms, the day he demanded Ser Willem Darry train him in combat, to make him a warrior but he knew even now the boy had never died. He only pretended to have power but he had none at all. He'd thought he'd killed the boy the day he agreed to marry Elia, for power, a truly political marriage but the boy was still there as he held his son in his arms, as he played at war upon a jousting field, as he crowned Lyanna and left his wife. These were the actions of a boy, a foolish boy who knew nothing of the destruction his actions caused, burning the earth, making it run red. A man did not take what he wanted, a true man, a true King sacrificed his own needs for the realm, for his people. _If Robert Baratheon rides to rejoin Eddard Stark and Jon Arryn in the North then my father will meet him in battle, it is war_. He rested his head against the saddle the cool leather seemed to calm his stormy mind.The last rebellion a Targaryen King had seen had nearly destroyed them all, the Great Bastards legitimised by Aegon IV on his deathbed caused open civil war amongst the bastard siblings and those true born. It was a war that pitted brother against brother. _Bloodraven, Bittersteel and the Dragonknight, I am like none of them yet I have done terrible things as they did_ , he thought. _It must be in our blood._  
"Troublesome news is it not?" His head snapped up to face the door of the stable, feeling his heart pulsing in his chest. The cloaked man lent languidly against the wooden frame, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "You have a familiar look about you, have we not met before?" _It would do best to forget if we have_ , he thought. He pleaded silently for the man to forget but instead he stared at Rhaegar's eyes searching for them in another place. He was sure his father had placed a heavy bounty on his head, a sack of gold dragons for him and another for his Northern lady no doubt.  
"Mayhaps I have a common face." Said Rhaegar coldly. The man gave a sharp rasp of a laugh.  
"If that's a common face then I wonder what they call mine." He smiled but his eyes were still icy and his hand did not move from his sword. "Purple eyes are a rare thing." Rhaegar felt his hand grip the hilt of his sword. "My father was a man of the City Watch, snuck me into the Red Keep for the grandest wedding I ever saw." The cloaked man took a step forward; Rhaegar could hear his breath on the air. "Saw me the King and his white knights, saw a Dornish princess, saw a _dragon prince_." Their eyes met in the dark and he heard the man slowly draw his sword, the metal scraping on the sheath.  
"I am not who you think I am." Rhaegar said grimly.  
"You are Rhaegar Targaryen." He drew his sword with a ring, sweeping his cloak aside. He let the ruby hilt glimmer in the light before rushing forward, the man raised his sword and Rhaegar met it with a clang, the force of it knocked the man's sword from his hand and he stared wild eyed and terrified. Rhaegar grabbed the man's shoulder in one hand and took his sword in the other pushing it through the man's throat. He gave a choking cry and Rhaegar stepped forward, pushing the sword deeper through his neck, feeling the man's muscle slice beneath his hand. The man stumbled backward, his back against the wall, his hands clasped at the blade, blood pouring from them as he clenched his fists around it. The horses whinnied and stamped in their stalls, the scent of blood sending them into frenzy.  
"I am not who you think I am." He said again, he pulled his sword back and a great spurt of blood gushed from the wound, slashing Rhaegar across the face. He tasted its iron taste in his mouth, felt its warmth on his hands as the man lay crumpled on the earth before him, leaving his life smeared across the side of the inn. _Let the man be born_.


	19. The Lord of Winterfell

There were three unrolled scrolls on the table, each bore a different wax seal, one was a swirl of black and purple, another yellow and one bore no colour at all. The first was a raven flying for Winterfell that a keen eyed archer had shot down in the dark, it was from Lord Merdic Dondarrion, a bannerman of Robert, it brought word of the attempt to take Ashford Castle to use as a bulwark against Highgarden but Mace Tyrell had gathered his forces and sent them fleeing for the North. It spoke of an ambush by the Reach on their journey into the Riverlands on the Goldroad to Casterly Rock and Robert had been lost to them, he was most likely be seeking refuge at Stoney Sept. The yellow sealed scroll was sent from Storm's End and it brought word from Robert's brother Stannis that Mace Tyrell was holding siege of the castle from the sea, his fleet gathered in its enormity. Randyll Tarly and Paxter Redwyne held the siege on land. It called for aide. Lord Jon Arryn read over the letter once more, his finger tracing the scrawled words, scratching his grey beard. Beside Ned, Ser Denys Arryn, Jon's cousin and now heir after the death of Ser Elbert at the hands of the Mad King, read letter closest to him silently. He was tall and handsome, an excellent jouster but Ned had a suspicion that much like himself, Denys felt more than a seasick in the vast ocean of war.  
"We cannot give Stannis his aide." Ned knew it too. They could not abandon the North and the Eyrie with all their armies marching on Storm's End, the royal forces would swoop in and take them both.  
"Then we must go to Robert."  
"How do we know he is truly at Stoney Sept Ned? To march our force on an empty city would be foolish, Aerys would see it as a weakness." Jon pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb as if to knead some clarity into his mind.  
"The letter says Jon Connington marches the royal force to Stoney Sept, if the King knows something we do not..." He eyed the uncoloured wax that sealed the third letter. It had no mark and the writer left no signature. A hedge knight of no arms brought it to them, he said he'd been given it by a child west of King's Landing in an inn, the child gave him a gold dragon to deliver it to Lord Arryn and Lord Stark. It was the most interesting of the three with the most valuable information. It told of the exile of Lord Hand Merryweather and the appointment of Lord Hand Connington, how he had gathered the royal force and planned to march on Stoney Sept where Robert Baratheon was said to be recovering from battle. It also wrote of Prince Lewyn Martell's journey south to gather the ten-thousand spears of Dorne and Lord Gerold's quest to find Rhaegar Targaryen. "What if it is a farce? What if it is sent to trick us? Why would anyone in King's Landing send us word when we have no allegiance there?"  
"Maybe there are some who see the madness in Aerys as we do. They may have sympathy to our cause but do not wish to risk their life for it."  
"A craven's word is no better than no word at all Cousin." Said Ser Denys as Ned nodded in agreement.  
"A craven mayhaps but a liar not entirely." Jon prodded at Merdic Dondarrion's letter. " His account matches that of Lord Dondarrion and there was word from riders of a new hand."  
"How wrath will Robert be to hear his own bannerman is Lord Hand..." Ned mused aloud. Robert had never had the mildest of temperaments, even as a child he had a quick temper which was only enhanced when he grew into manhood. _The hammer in his hand does nothing to calm his wild temper._  
"Not as wrath as if Jon Connington puts him in chains and hands him to the King." Muttered Denys.  
"My Lords." A voice called from beyond the tent.  
"Enter." Called Jon throwing the yellow sealed letter back on the table defeated. The boy was garbed in mismatched armour and bore the colours of the Vale.  
"My Lord Arryn, Lord Stark, Ser Denys." He bowed to them. "Lord Tully approaches with a guard."  
"Lord Tully?" asked Ned, rising from his seat quickly. Should Lord Tully come he may arrest them, throw them in a dungeon or worse, send them to the King. They were outlawed Lords with a rebellious cause.  
"It seems we have ventured too closely to Riverrun, we must treaty with him. After all Brandon and his daughter were betrothed."  
"But our houses are not bonded by blood, his oath to his King is still the stronger." Lord Tully would be a fool to join them, though they needed his forces desperately if the letter was to be believed and ten thousand Dornish were to march on them. He would ask for something in return for his allegiance, they always did.  
"We will see." Said Jon softly. There was a muffling of voices beyond the tent and the many conjoined shadows of many men could be seen through the rippling cloth.  
"Stay." Said a commanding voice and the other voices ceased. "Brother, join me." The tent opening was held aside as Lord Tully entered. Not an impressively tall man, with a cropped beard that must once have been shocking red but now only hints of auburn were left amongst grey. His silver scaled armour shone in the light and his blue and red cloak was clasped with two jewels in the shape of leaping trout. Behind entered his younger brother, Ser Brynden the Blackfish. His hair was still auburn and his beard thick on his jaw, his eyes startlingly blue and his armour a dark metal. They were almost of a height with one another but Ned thought Ser Brynden stood a little taller, perhaps the weight of being Lord of the Riverlands was a heavy burden to carry. _Warden of the North is a heavy burden too, I will know it soon.  
_ "Lord Arryn, Lord Stark, Ser Denys. It is a shame we must meet for this purpose, I had thought you would ride for Riverrun once you entered my lands but you did not." Said by a different man his words may have been threatening but his fatherly face gave him an all too kindly appearance. _Mayhaps that is what he wants._  
"We are wanted men Lord Tully, forgive us." Jon walked towards the table picking up a goblet and pouring wine into it, he held it out to Lord Tully. "Wine?" He asked.  
"Yes thank you, it has been a hard ride." He took it from Lord Arryn and his brother glared at him as he did. Lord Hoster ignored him and gulped his wine, draining the cup.  
"There was no need to trouble yourself with such things my lord, we only mean to pass through." Jon said airily.  
"Is that true my lord?" asked the Blackfish shrewdly. His brother gave him a scathing glance and turned back to Lord Arryn. "We have word that Lord Robert is being concealed at Stoney Sept and the new Lord Hand, Jon Connington rides with haste for him."  
"And who has brought you this word Ser Brynden?" Jon furrowed his brow and his eyes flickered for an instant to the letter on the table.  
"We all have friends in the Red Keep, do we not my lords?" Lord Hoster eyed the letters on the table in front of Ned and Denys, Jon did not answer.  
"Do you wish to join us then Lord Tully?" Asked Ned, his voice a little quieter than he intended. He felt a boy amongst men. He saw they felt it too, in their eyes they did not trust his judgement, in their eyes he was a green boy who knew naught of war and rebellion.  
"We do not my Lord Stark," _That title does not rest easy with me; I should never have been a lord. It was Brandon's title, his right. He was born for it._ "I cannot risk spilling the blood of my men for the promise of a rogue lord."  
"Then why have you come Lord Tully if not to give us your allegiance?" Jon enquired, his airy voice becoming a little harder.  
"Unless you plan to arrest us on the Kings name." Quipped Denys.  
"Your army is on my land my lords; it is my duty to my people to keep them safe."  
"Our purpose is not a danger to the people of riverlands; we fight only for the _justice_ the King owes us." _And for the lives he took from us_ , Ned thought.  
"I heard of the murders of Lord Rickon and Ser Brandon. I am deeply sorry Lord Eddard." He looked it too. His blue eyes seemed watery as the rivers he governed and Ned turned away from his gaze.  
"As am I, Lord Hoster." He said icily. Winterfell would not be the same, a home without his father, without Brandon and Lyanna. He wondered how Ben faired, how he would mourn alone in the godswood that they had all once been so content in. Now it was a place to grieve, a mere memory of what was.  
"My daughter still mourns for her betrothed; she had her heart set on a Northman." Ned noticed Lord Hoster did not say his brother's name and glanced up at Lord Jon, their eyes met for a brief moment, a look of pained understanding seemed to pass between them. He stared down darkly at the three letters before him, reading them again as if the answer to his silent prayer was concealed in the scrawled notes. "And my daughter Lysa, such a fragile thing. How I wished to see her happily wed too."

“Give me and Lord Eddard leave a moment Lord Tully.” Jon bowed to Lord Hoster and walked out of the tent and into the dark night and Ned dutifully followed. They walked amongst the quiet tents and soldiers gathered around dying fires. Ned felt his heavy cloak billowed behind him in the strong wind that rolled off the hills and rivers and into their camp.  “The old man wants a marriage, not a war.” Said Jon with a sigh. He looked older than Ned remembered in the dim light, the lines of his face deeper and sadder. Ned was just a boy when his father had sent him to the Vale, not long after his mother had died. He had watched Lyanna shed a silent tear as he rode off, holding Ben’s tiny hand in her own. The Vale was cold and the winds moaned against the walls, begging to enter but the thick walls held them out and the winds were sent back across the mountains, Lord Jon had been warm and welcoming  compared to the bitterly cold keep and when Robert joined Ned in Vale they had become brothers with Lord Arryn has their father. By then Robert was already a Lord, his father having perished in a sinking ship returning from a quest to find Rhaegar Targaryen a worthy bride in the Free Cities. Jon had become a father to them both but he had been young then, full of light but now Ned had begun to see it fade and wondered if the weight of war was too much for him to bare.   
“He would have had one if Aerys had not...” He left his sentence unfinished. Robert had been his brother in arms, he often felt he knew him better than his own brothers who he had been parted from for so long. But Brandon was his blood, he had not deserved to die that way, it hurt his heart to even think of it.  
“He would. But yet his daughter is still unmarried.”  
“The way he speaks it seems he wants both his daughters wed, we have plenty of highborn lords and heirs to offer to Lord Hoster.” He thought of fair looking Ser Denys, Lord Dondarrion’s young son Beric, the list of men was almost endless, any of them would do for the Tullys.  
“He does not want them my boy, he wants us.” Ned stopped and stared at his warden, wide-eyed. “I have heard from my men the Lady Lysa’s maidenhead has come under scrutiny, or the lack of it. She is said to have been with child for a brief moment but whose it is remains a mystery. I am an old man, I have an heir in my cousin and she is young, however spoilt. I would not wish you to marry a girl who has had another man, for our cause I shall marry Lysa Tully and you must marry Lady Catelyn.”  
“She was betrothed to Brandon.” He said, it would seem like a betrayal to his brother to marry the woman he was promised, however unwillingly to.  
“Aye she was but Ned your brother is dead. He will not wed her now and without these marriages Hoster Tully will not pledge us a single soldier.”  
“What is his alternative? Aerys will not give him the weddings he seeks.”  
“He could do as Lord Tywin and Lord Frey do, wait in their keeps and turn a blind eye to the bloodshed until it is done.”   
“Should I refuse?” He racked his mind for any reason to refuse a highborn, fair maiden but he could not find one. He had a vision of a beautiful girl with long red hair who had given her heart to his handsome brother and instead gotten him as a husband. _I will stand in his shadow forever if I marry her._  
“Then Robert shall die at Stoney Sept.” He placed a hand on his shoulder as he had done before and stared at him with cool blue eyes. “He is like a son to me, as are you Ned but you are not boys anymore. You do not play at war as we once did in the courtyards of my keep, should we fail we shall die. It is not a question of the strength of our swords but of our allegiances. We need strong allies or the Targaryens will destroy us all, they will wipe our blood clean from the slate of our lands until there is none left to question their crimes and madness.”  Ned thought of Ben, alone at Winterfell, of soldiers dressed in red and black pulling him from his bed and executing him as they did Brandon. He thought of Lyanna, wherever she was facing the same fate. He missed her more than any, he pined for her and his heart yearned to know where she was, of her safety, every moment. _The only way they shall be safe is to win this war_ , he thought. They returned slowly to the tent, Ned with a heavy heart, where Lord Hoster and his brother awaited them.  
"Mayhaps I can make you an offer of marriage my lord." Said Jon bluntly.  
"Of marriage?" Lord Hoster asked, intrigued.  
"I would ask the hand of your youngest daughter, she would be Lady Arryn and her sons would be Wardens of the East." Denys stared wide eyed at his cousin as if he had gone mad.  
"That is a worthy offer." Lord Hoster pondered. "But my sweet Cat, she will be ever so lonely without her sister."  
"Lord Eddard will make a worthy husband for your eldest, will you not Ned?" Jon looked at him pointedly and Ned pulled himself from his thoughts.  
"Yes my lord, I will make your daughter a worthy husband." He knew the words sounded empty. They were.  
"Noble matches for your fine daughers. That is, if you give us your allegiance against King Aerys." Jon smiled warmly to the Lord of Riverrun. An army for a wife, he must think it is a small price to pay but Ned thought it too high. A Southron woman who held the Seven that was not the woman he'd dreamed of. _You never dreamt of any women_ , he reminded himself, _not in the way that Robert does anyway_.  
"In return of my allegiance and my army you would make my daughters worthy matches?" He paused a moment and turned to his brother beside him who only raised one dark eyebrow in response. "Then you have my army Lord Stark, Lord Arryn." Jon clapped his hands together happily and smiled broadly but Ned only lowered himself slowly into his chair. He was no fair knight as Brandon had been, not the one for quaint smiles and biting wit. _"You are the winter"_ his father had said once, _"It is you Brandon will look to when winter comes, when summer is all but a distant memory and the winter winds howl and bite at the castle walls. He will turn to you and you will know."_   But he did not know now. Fair maidens of the South dreamed of fair princes who sang and played the high harp, they wanted Prince Rhaegar or the golden haired Jaime Lannister, not him so dull of face and sombre of nature. He had thought he would marry a northern girl, the daughter of a North lord, a girl who would enjoy simpler things. _Lyanna is a northern girl_ , he reminded himself, _and where is she now?_ He wanted to push the thought away, far away until he never thought it again but it still came to him, rearing its ugly head. Lyanna's watering eyes as Prince Rhaegar sang his solemn song at Harrenhal, their hands in one another's on the jousting field, the blue roses on her lap and the empty bed he found in her tent. The way she had blushed when he looked at her seemed almost nothing then, now it was everything. She was never anything more than a dirty, foul-mouthed little girl, had he been foolish to forget she was a woman too? To forget her beauty, though she was much more than a fair face to some men it was all they saw, it blinded them. _Robert has been blinded by it_ , he thought, _he will see the ice beneath one day, the iron that makes her of the North._ Robert spoke of the dragon prince more than Lyanna, of gutting him, burning him, burying his hammer in his pretty face but Ned only stared at the ground as he did, trying to rid himself of the vision of Harrenhal, their longing stares when no other was watching. _I am blind too._

They were wedded hastily in the sept at Riverrun; there was no great feast as there would have been for Brandon. They said their words and exchanged their cloaks in a small sept within the castle and Lady Lysa glanced at her sister sadly, perhaps she had imagined a fairer lord than Jon. His white hair and crinkled eyes may not be fair but he was a good man, she would find no better. Her sister had given him the same look too. She had expected a Brandon in his youth and had instead gotten Ned, her round blue eyes fell with disappointment as she took in his heavy features and cold eyes. He told himself to smile but it only seemed to make her sadder still, she must remember Brandon's handsome face and in comparison his could never match, even in death Brandon was still the better Stark. Lady Catelyn however, was a beauty, it was a shame it would be hidden in the North where no-one would see it. Lady Lysa had shed silent tears as they led her up to the bedding chamber but Lady Catelyn was silent and sombre as she was led into her own bed chamber by Ser Denys and her uncle, with Ned waiting nervously by her bed. He had never lain with a woman but to see her undressed, an innocent flower for only his eyes he thought he may have been to quick to judge his wanton brother and friends. He did his duty as did she and they lay beside eachother, neither sleeping, neither speaking. _Such a happy marriage_ , he thought darkly.  
Lord Hoster's army began to gather day by day outside the stone walls of Riverrun, on both sides of the river men seemed to pile, a never ceasing stream of riders would join as they heard the word of their banners called. Noticeably absent, House Frey, their Lord Walder with his many sons were almost an army themselves.  
"The late Lord Frey can sit in his bloody towers then, we will ride with dawn." Said Lord Hoster one evening when they looked not like to join them.

The dawn rose a dazzlingly pale morning that made every helm gleam and breastplate shine. Ned mounted his horse, the sun just beginning to warm the day and he stared into it blissfully, for a moment forgetting who he was and what he rode for. They had seen no battle yet, split no blood. He was leagues away at Winterfell, calling his banners when the royal force fell at Summerhall. He watched the sculptor carve Brandon's face into the rock for his crypt that day, he remembered it now. The man had breathed life back into a brother who was nothing more than a corpse, but it was only a child's dream, there was no life in the rock. That was gone.  
They rode hard along a well travelled path and just north of Stoney Sept came along two hanging men, stripped of armour and with only blackened skin left on their bones. A crow rested on the shoulder of one and cawed loudly at them as they passed. There was a sign nailed to a tree, painted in yellow, _"Outlaws"_ it read and beneath it a poorly drawn stag. Though the sight of the hanged men was not pleasant it did mean that Lord Merdic had brought Robert's forces this way, perhaps in an attempt to take the town from a different direction or to try and find Ned's own army. They rode on and what had begun a pale, pleasant day turned dark and grey, clouds gathered overhead and thunder rolled in the distance.  
Night had fallen as the sept appeared high on its hill, glowing orange light in its highest windows. There were no armies surrounding the vast town, but he suspected they were concealed amongst the buildings. He knew they were there, the bodies hanging on the path made that clear and even now he could see a flag flapping desperately against the wind. A three-headed dragon, red on black.  
"He is here."  
"We can't possibly know where Robert is though my lord." Said Ser Denys beside him.  
"If Jon Connington holds the town then Robert can only be in the sept. We must take the town and the sept too if we are to save him." A raindrop fell from above, the clank it made on his armour was deafening in their silence. Another fell and another until all around was the clinking of them on steel. High on its hill the sept glowed and suddenly a deep bell began to toll, over and over.  
"A warning." Said Lord Hoster darkly.  
"Of what?" asked Ser Denys  
"Of war." The bells tolled, their booming sound seemed to take his heart in their hands until it beat in time with them. A horn blew a long note in the darkness of the town and shouts could be heard through the streets as torches were lit and men grabbed sword and bow and axe. His horse snorted beneath him, stamping its foot indignantly at the bells. He looked around him and his men were scared, the bells put the fear of the gods in them, though the northmen did not hold the Seven, any god should be feared. He saw green boys with the shining town in their eyes, their hands on their bloodless swords with no cause to die than his command.  
"You will take the vanguard Ser Brynden, Lord Hoster the rear. Ser Denys and Lord Jon, we will take most the Northmen through the town to the sept."  
"Very well my lord." Said Lord Hoster with a raised eyebrow, who wheeled his horse around and galloped along the line of men to his own. Ser Brynden nodded and followed.  
"Jon Connington wants your head too Ned." Denys reminded him. He knew why he said it, though Robert was the leader of their rebellion with the heaviest prize on his head, Ned was a rebel too and King Aerys would reward Jon Connington just as greatly for his death.  
"I know Denys." He stared down at the town and wondered how he had come this far. "But there is far more to fear than a dragon king's madness. Winter is coming." He had wanted nothing more than to see his sister wed his dearest friend and now each was almost lost to him. How many fathers would he slay this night? How many brothers would mourn as he did? _That is the nature of war, the old gods will forgive me._  
"Very well, I'll prepare the men." Denys turned his horse and shouted out to the Northman, a rousing speech perhaps but he did not hear. His helm rang with the rain that beat down heavily on them, the sound nearly drowning out the bells. He saw the laughing handsome face of Jon Connington in his mind's eye, envisioned that face full of malice and murder, his sword raised to strike and Ned gritted his teeth, his jaw set. _If I do not kill him, he will kill me. There will be no mercy on this night._ Jon sat on his horse silently to his side, perhaps thinking the same. There was a great roar and he saw the dark shadows of Ser Brynden's vanguard charge forward down the sloping hill toward the town, the Tully trout flapping against the wind, swimming through the air. Ser Denys trotted up beside Ned, his helm under his arm and his dark hair plastered to his face, water dripping from his nose.  
"A lovely night." He said with a hint of a smile. Ned did not return it. Men would die this night, were dying now, he could hear the clash of steel in the deep; the air was thick with soldiers final breath.  
"We must ride." He wheeled about his mount to face the men watching the battle below. "Raise your banners high brave men! Do not stop for glory or for blood. We make for the sept, for Lord Baratheon." He faced back to the town and kicked his heels into the horse, felt her lurch forward suddenly. "Ride!" He shouted. The rain poured in through his helm, the night beyond it blurred and all he saw was the light of the sept, his only candle in the darkness. They reached the first houses and the few royal soldiers who had reached the town boundary in time had been ridden down by the vanguard, the men lay face down in the mud, unmoving. Soon the houses became more frequent and shouts and the song of steel was louder here, houses were ablaze, the fire fighting its own battle with the storm above.  
The men were in the houses, on the streets, a pair battled on a rooftop and all around was chaos and bloodshed.  
"This is madness my lord." Called burly Lord Dustin of Barrowton, his red steed snorting and stamping.  
"We must ride on my lord, we must reach the sept." He urged his horse onwards and as a street opened up before them a burning roof eliminated the ground. A mass of lifeless bodies and quivering horses lay sunken in the mud, amongst them men battled though he could not tell which were Tully and which were Targaryen.  
He saw the gate finally, climbing higher, his horse straining up the cobbled street. _Almost, almost._ She screamed suddenly, a terrible sound and fell beneath him, the gate within his sight. They hit the ground with a sickening thud and he rolled away quickly before the horse could fall on him. An arrow was buried deep in her throat and the fall had twisted her leg so that pale bone poked through pink flesh. There was no return from that. He raised his sword and sliced her throat. A man in red and black started towards him, emerging bloody from a house and held his sword high in the air. Before the man could strike a blow Ned thrusted the hilt of his sword into his face, feeling the man's nose break and he dropped his sword to clutch his face. As he did Ned pushed his sword through his belly and the man fell bleeding to the ground.  
"Ned!" Jon called from his horse, "The sept!" He pointed forwards and Ned began to run after their horses, slicing at any man who raised his blade. He would not stop, he had purpose. He heard Lord Hoster's rear behind him, killing any man Ser Brynden and the Northmen had left. A flat expanse of cobbled stone lay at the top of the hill before the sept gates which were barred shut, the bells tolling on within. A man in a tall helm, in glittering armour riding a white horse came into focus and Ned watched him curiously as he caught his breath. At least one man in a pairing battle around him turned their head to the man. _Jon Connington_. _His dear friend stole Lyanna_ , his mind said, _he knows where she is, he must._  
"The new Lord Hand." Shouted Lord Arryn. Jon Connington urged his horse forward and a soldier stepped before him, sword raised. He cut him down as easily as a hawk hunted a songbird, the man fell. He removed his helm slowly, throwing it aside, his red hair immediately plastered to his youthful, bearded face.  
"A pleasure my lords." He bowed his head mockingly. Ned heard the thundering of hooves behind him and turned, his hand gripped tightly on the sword in his hand. Lord Hoster's scaled armour was unmistakeable even at a distance though his blue and red cloak was more black, soaked in blood and rain. "In the name of the King, I must ask you to cease this foolish rebelleion and face your punishment."  
"As my father and brother did?" shouted Ned, the smell of blood was strong in his nose, his own sweat poured from him and he felt a burning anger that he had never felt before.  
"Treason is treason Lord Stark."  
"And what's the Kings punishment for abduction I do wonder. Your dear friend Rhaegar is long due for it." Called Jon Arryn. Knights aligned themselves with Lord Connington, edging ever forward, Ned looked over his shoulder and saw their men who had survived, ride or run up the hill toward them. Dragon, griffin, flower men alike spilled in from each side, rallying around their commander  
"As are you Lord Eddard." He charged forward and his men followed, Ned was almost lost amongst the horses, he ran forward cutting the legs of every horse that was not their own battling his way to the sept door. He spied the white horse and made for it with haste, he felt a searing pain in his arm and turned to see an arrow and found its way there. He pulled it from him with gritted teeth, throwing it aside angrily. _Chaos, chaos all around. Where is Robert?  
_ Lord Connington circled around an unhorsed Ser Denys, knocking his sword from his hand and put his own sword through the back of his skull. Ned shouted silently as Ser Denys fell forward only moment later to be trampled by another horse. A knight, unhorsed yelled and started towards him, their swords singing each trying to finish the other swiftly. The man did not die valiantly when Ned put his sword through his chest. He fell like every other, alone and for naught. _There is no victory for the dead._ Death did not care if he was a knight or a beggar, all men were equal in death. He stared around again, throwing his heavy helm aside, wiping blood from his eyes searching for the Lord Hand. Lord Arryn had battled Connington when he last looked but now Lord Hoster replaced Jon Arryn, and Lord Tully swiped deftly, cutting Connington across the face, spraying blood across them both. Ned turned to run towards them but Jon Connington picked a spear from the chest of a dead man, balancing it in his hand and throwing it. It caught Lord Hoster through the arm and he clung to his screaming horse that rode away terrified from the battle. There was the sound of a great war horn and a thundering of hooves all around. Ned felt his heart sink at the sound. _More of Jon Connington's men, we are lost._ A yellow banner was held high as they rode towards the battle of the gate, a rearing stag in black. A knight, in purple led them throwing himself into the fight. Jon Connington rallied his men and charged for his fellow storm lords, no haste in cutting down his brothers in oath.  
"The gate!" Shouted Ned to the men left behind, Lord Arryn and Lord Dustin amongst them. Fifty or so men scrambled forward, rushing towards the wooden doors. The men heaved at the door of the sept, other began to scale the walls, the old stone with its deep crevasses making easy work of it. The door began to crack beneath the force then crumpled the wood splintering in the centre. The men tore at it, forcing their way in and he heard screams from within. Ned forced his way through with them into the muddy courtyard, the sept bright above them. More royal soldiers barred the way in though fewer than in the town, it seemed Lord Connington had been arrogant enough to believe they would not make it this far. Men who had scaled the wall stood on the battlements firing arrows into the King's men and they stumbled then died.  
"Spread out men! Search every building, kill every man who fights in the name of the King." He spied Ser Martyn Cassel enter through the broken door and grabbed his shoulder. "With me Ser Martyn, into the sept." They ran forward across the deserted courtyard, a stone fountain with a leaping trout spouting water sat in the middle lonely and broken. The sept doors were barred shut and Ned kicked them down, feeling his leg jar beneath its force. A terrified Septor held out his arms protectively. The bells were deafening within the sept, he looked up and saw the shadow of them swinging back and forth high in the rafters.  
"My lords please. This is a holy place! Mother have mercy." He begged, his wrinkled face as quivering eyeing their bloody swords.  
"We mean you know harm Septor, where is Lord Robert?" asked Ned urgently, his eyes scouring the dark place for his brother in arms.  
"He's-he's not here." His voice was high and he did not look at them. _He lies_.  
"We are his allies septor not his enemy. We fight for him." Ser Martyn beside him stepped forward with an exasperated sigh and grabbed him roughly by the front of the robes.  
"Tell us where Lord Baratheon is Septor or I shall cut you nose to navel." The septor burst into tears and sagging limply in Ser Martyn's grasp.  
"Unhand that man Ser Martyn or I'll cut off something you love far more than those hands." A voice called from the sept. Robert stepped from the dark, his armour filthy, his face leaner than Ned knew with a thick black beard, his hammer still firmly in his hand.  
"Robert." Ned smiled slightly, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.  
"Aerys couldn't kill me that bloody easily." He stepped towards them and slapped Ned's back. "You've done well _Lord Stark_." He put a hand under the arm of the old septor, bringing him to his feet. "May the gods forever bless you septor and all the good you have done for me, I will not forget it lightly." Robert turned back to them with a dark look in his blue eyes, he always wanted war, always wanted to see the life leave a man's eyes. He craved it. "Now, where is Jon Connington?"  
"He was outside the holdfast my lord." said Ser Martyn.  
"Then let me go and greet him, he has been so eager to see me." They walked out of the sept and the courtyard was full of northmen battling the few King's soldiers left within the gate though more fought through it. "I want to feel that traitorous bastard's blood on my hands, I want to see the look in his eyes as I rip his life from him. And as I do, I'll whisper all the things I'll do to his fucking dragon prince." He said it, as he always did, with a smile.  
"Better find him first Robert, it's mayhem."  
"He'll come for me, I'm the grand prize am I not?" He said it with pride as if to be the most dangerous man in Westeros were a title he would chose if it were not given. A man laid bloody and dead on the cobbled yard, his life's blood staining the floor crimson, he had no face nor a name and wore no sigil, no-one would no his death, no-one would mourn.  
"Lord Robert! It's Lord Baratheon!" The shout went out and soon it echoed out of the doors and down into the town, the wind carrying it higher until the night seemed full of it. A man ran towards them, a triumphant look in his eyes. He was no ally. His sword was raised to strike but Robert swung his great hammer, his full muscled force behind it and the man's face seemed to collapse beneath it, bone, skin, and blood were parted as it swung through the air. Ned took a hasty step back and the hammer dripped blood and the mush of human flesh. The man lay face down on the floor twitching and with one thundering blow his skull flattened and he was still at last. Robert stood tall, blood spattered across his face, his black hair wild and his eyes wilder, he stared beyond the gate a lion with a deer in sight. He charged forward toward the mass of men battling around them and his great hammer parted them and they fell before it, trembling. Ned ran after him with Ser Martyn at his heels, blades lunged for them but he had fulfilled his purpose here, _no more life need be lost_. Robert entered into a skirmish with at least six men, the rain falling in heavy sheets on them so the ground was slick with mud and blood. Beyond the gate he saw the white horse and a line of men marching forwards.  
"Northmen, rivermen, this battle is yet to be done. Lord Connington approaches!" Ned pointed to the door as he bellowed. Jon Connington's fiery hair was plastered to his face and he too was covered in blood, his own or others Ned could not tell but he held his head high, his glorious longsword in hand. Beside him another knight was unhelmed, Ser Myles Mooton, once a squire to Rhaegar Targaryen now a knight by his doing and like many others, his good friend.  
"My lord!" Called a warning and Ned turned quickly to see three men pounce at him with swords too heavy for them, even in armour they were boys. He met them blow for blow his arm aching with each but they were clumsy and skidded on the slippery floor, the swords were uncomfortable in their hands and Ned put his sword through the gorget of one, the other dropped his weapon and ran only to be cut down by another. Only one remained, defiant. A ringing of steel and his blade was in two, clutching the hilt the boy fell to his knees before Ned.  
"Have mercy, Mother have mercy." Ned looked at him with cold eyes. _If I do not kill him, he shall kill me._ He thought of Lyanna alone, hurt and broken in a distant place, Brandon riding to his bride, the sound of his father's horse bolting out of the gates of Winterfell to his son. _This boy did not commit those crimes_ _yet he shields the men that did with his life._ His throat opened and his head rolled between Ned's feet and into the men around him. _Show them the same mercy Aerys showed for your family_. He looked around for Robert who had retreated further back towards the sept leaving a trail of crushed corpses where he went. Jon Connington was battling his own way towards Robert, his eye fixed firmly on the most valuable treasure. _What has Aerys offered you for his head?_ He thought. _Gold, it was always gold._ Ser Myles reached Robert first and the knight was surrounded by Tully men who stabbed and cut at his horse who screamed horribly before falling to the ground and out of sight. He battled his way from the dead horse and Robert, hammer bloody in his broad hand waited for him. Ned darted around the brawling masses and still corpses to stand by Robert's side. Ned crossed swords with any man who aimed for him and there was a never ending stream of warriors who hungered for glory enough to risk their lives for a bag of gold dragons and each one fell without glory or gold.  
"Your master is not here tonight Mooton. He stole my lady and his father is mad. When you die, I will kill him next. _Slowly_." They clashed, steel on steel, the clanging louder than the bells.  
"You will not speak ill of the prince or the King, Baratheon, not to me."  
"Are you such a loyal dog you would lay down your life for a raper and a murderer?"  
"Your traitorous mouth is not worthy of their names Baratheon. I would call you a lord but of course you aren't a lord anymore and you'll be short a head when the night is done."  
"By whose hand? Yours or Connington's?" He laughed but there was no joy in it, it made Ned nervous to hear. "Connington will _beg_ for mercy when I am done. He will beg the Mother saves him but he will have no saviour." Ned's sword was gory and his hands slipped on the hilt as he fought and listened too, Mooton said no word of Lyanna and no word of Rhaegar. There was a cry behind him and Robert's empty laugh again. "No saviour for you either it seems." He turned and Mooton twitched on the floor, the hammer buried in his head. Robert ripped it from him with a cracking of bone and the white horse reared angrily. On its back Jon Connington looked on horrified at the heap on the floor that Myles Mooton had become, he stared around at the bodies piling high on the earth.  
"Retreat!" yelled Connington, his horse rearing again. The shout caught the wind again, rolling down the hill. He began to wheel about his mount when Robert exploded with rage taking a short sword from its sheath on his hip and stabbing the horse in the hindquarters. It fell slowly and as it did, Robert ripped Connington from it throwing him aside. He fought like a giant, a red-eyed bull in the rain. Connington crumpled on the floor and grabbed his sword before he got up to face Robert.  
"I called my banners Connington." Said Robert. His blue eyes were dark, he was the storm and his malice was in the rain soaking them all. Ned felt it infect him, he felt his own desire to cut down this man, to make him talk, to hear any word he may say of Lyanna.  
"As did the King."  
"A Targaryen man through and through. Or should I say _Rhaegar's_ man." He spat the prince's name as if he brought him a sickening taste to even say it. If he imagined the prince's golden hands on his sisters pale skin it made him sick too. They raged in battle, before long the Griffin Lord's armour was dented beyond recognition and Robert's blood soaked his leather jerkin. Soldiers were distracted from their own combat by the sheer power of the two lords clashing, antlers and talons. Connington's sword became lodged in the wooden shaft of the hammer and a flicker of panic flashed across his face as he tried and failed to wrench it free. Robert kicked him in the chest with such force the lord flew backwards onto the steps of the sept, the figures of his gods lit behind him by the light of a thousand candles. He scrambled to get up but Robert was on him before he could reach his sword and raised his hammer high in the air. It fell and it seemed as though time began to halt and Ned heard a dull ringing in his ears. The rain poured down from the black abyss above them and Jon Connington's blood fell with it. The ground beneath Ned's feet was red.


	20. Lyanna

She plucked a string and it rung, a quivering note that bounced off the stone walls. It faded away and the birds calling in the trees below were all that was left. She leant back into the decaying velvet chair clutching the harp to her chest and sighed. I might be free but freedom is dull, she thought. Rhaegar had gone to the inn and with it he took his tales of the Red Keep, his singing, his touch. That was all there was nowadays, the few books he had brought had been read by both what Lyanna thought must be a hundred times and though he had suggested teaching her the harp she had no skill for it, becoming inpatient and giving up all together. She had begged Rhaegar to take her with him, even let her go in his place; she yearned to hear word of her brothers, of home, even of Robert. She felt a guilty pang in her stomach when she thought of him, his dazzlingly blue eyes and his sweet words. He will find another, she will be better than I, she told herself again and again. Rhaegar would have her locked in this tower forever if he could, to "keep her from harm".  
"There's nothing out there Rhaegar, for a hundred leagues there is nothing. What harm can I find?" She reached forward and kissed him, running a hand down his chest to his hip and pulled his dragon hilted sword from the sheath. She took a step back and held the blade under his chin and he smiled, what a beautiful thing it was too, just for her. "I'm just as quick as you." He had laughed then and it was sweeter than even his smile.

There was a faint galloping of hooves and she rose quickly from the chair, placing the harp on the floor beside her. She leaned over the edge of the balcony staring out across the sweeping valley and lush forest, even over the singing birds the sound of a rider approaching was deafening. She felt her heartbeat in her throat, pounding against her chest, she wondered if it was the excitement of Rhaegar's return or the faint possibility it could be another, a rider seeking refuge in the tower who knew all the word from King's Landing and Winterfell and Storm's End, of all those she loved and left behind. It could be bold Brandon riding to break my imagined bonds, sweet Ned doing his duty to our family, it only made her heart beat even harder, just the thought of seeing their faces again. She had been away so long she longed for them. She still longed for her shining prince more, she hated that she did. How she had prided herself on being above simpering women who loved nothing more than a man's beauty, when the ladies she lessoned with talked of marriage and children she wondered why they did not dream of more, she told this to Old Nan once and she only replied "What more is there for a woman Lyanna?". She had hated that too. There was nothing else a woman was good for, she couldn't be a knight who singers wrote songs for, she could never ride into battle to fight for her honour, she couldn't rule and be loved by her people, she might as well be some prized mare sold to breed to the highest bidder who offered the biggest bag of golden dragons for the pleasure of her bed. To men, women are nothing but animals, and even then some men treated their dogs better than their wives. Rhaegar is different, she thought. Or is he? Princess Elia was sold off by her mother, wedded and now he'd had his fill he'd replaced her with a different woman. He can do it to her, who he cares for so, can he not do it to me? The sound grew closer and she ran down the spiraling steps of the tower and out into the blinding sunlight. He could do me the same as he did Elia, yet here he is. She reached the bottom step and she started down the stone steps, a little more carefully as the harsh winds that rolled off the mountains had worn them to mere smooth dents. Through the trees she spied the shining coat of Rhaegar's horse. She reached the bottom of the steps and waited breathlessly with the shallow stream running past her feet. He appeared through the trees, glorious and beautiful, in that moment he was a King but a cloud shielded the sun and she looked a little closer. His face was dirty and had a rusty coloured splatter across it, his hands and shirt were the same, he seemed to stare up at the tower with an unfocused gaze, it was cold and hard, not a look that he had ever had for her. She walked towards him, her foot slipping slightly in the stream and her slipper filling with water as he jumped from the saddle and took the reins in his hands.  
"Rhaegar...?" She asked tentatively placing a hand on his, he stared up at the tower still his deep violet eyes so dark she thought they had turned black as ash. Only when her hand touched his did his eyes move to hers and they were so distant for that moment it was if all the seas and mountains stood between them.  
"A man." He said quietly. "He knew me, he knew who I was." She knew what the rusty stains were ,why they drenched his clothes, why his hands were bathed in blood. She pulled him into an embrace and he bent so his head rested on her shoulder, she stroked his hair gently and let him respite. He killed a man.

That night when they lay in bed, his dark head on her chest he raised up and kissed her, it was desperate and feral , his mouth was hard on hers and it made her short for breath. His hand slipped into the pair of breeches she'd stolen from him and he found her ready. He had her every way, rough and relentless, she felt herself bruise where his hands were too heavy but she reveled in it all the same. She screamed his name then they turned to pleasured pleas to the gods and he mercilessly, delivered. Though they had washed the blood from his hands she knew he felt it there still and the comfort he needed she was all too willing to provide. So far I have come from my precious maidenhead. The sun rose and Rhaegar finally slept, his seed in her. The birds began their morning chorus again and she wondered for how many years had they sung with none to hear? How many more would they carry on once I have gone and there is nothing left of me but the faintest memory? Rhaegar murmured in his sleep and she supposed it was never a thought he had had, he would live and die in legend. Born a prince and die a King there was little chance any man would not know his name, though he had earned his title far beyond its birthright, as a great warrior and an honourable man. A crown was nothing but a lump of gold, any man could wear it but only Rhaegar was a King.

They watched the moon, all its deep crevasses and peaks visible in its glittering light. They wore barely a thing between them, Lyanna shyness long forgotten and her skin though a little darker than before still appeared ghostly in the light. Rhaegar's deep purple eyes reflected the moon, she was a serene white lake in a stormy violet landscape.  
"There was a story once, I read it in a scroll from Norvos." Sometimes when he spoke she wondered if the words were for her or his own musings, mistakenly said out loud.  
"A story?"  
"An old wives tale would be truer, of the moon and the sun. The sun was a burning man and the moon a shining woman. They had chased each other through the skies for millennia. When they finally kissed they both cried for they had chased so long both had given up hope of ever holding the other. And every plant, animal and man, creature of sea and winged beast of the sky fell before their love and the earth was born again from them." He stared up at the moon sadly.  
"That is a sweet story, old wives tale or not." He shook his head slightly, his hair nearly silver again.  
"You are the moon." She scoffed, trying to not giggle moving from his chest to sit upright in the sheets.  
"Even for one as poetic as you my love, that is a rather bold statement." He furrowed his brow, turning his gaze to her at last.  
"You do not understand, you do not see the power you possess. Every man at Harrenhal loved you. You are the beginning and end of everything. Now and then it makes me miserable at how alive you are and how dead I am."  
"You are not dead Rhaegar." She got up from the bed and walked, naked to the open balcony and leant against the stone wall, staring up again. "You breathe do you not? You walk and talk and love, you are as alive as I am." She turned back to him and he sat up too, his golden torso gleaming. She sat beside him, stroking his cheek with a gentle hand. "Let me know why you feel this way, let me understand for I cannot bear for you to feel so sad."  
"Ask me then my love, my words are yours to have."  
"Why did you become a knight? Everyone says that you did not care for it at all, that you read something in your scrolls that made you pick up a sword."  
"I was knighted many years ago yet I still feel a boy with a wooden sword but now it is heavy steel and my life I carry in my hands. To be a King it is not your sword that must be sharp but your mind. You have a thousand soldiers, a guard devoted to the protection of your life to draw their swords for you but your mind it must be quick and calm and just or no land will ever be safe. Not from the rulings of a mad king..." He let the sentence trail away. Lyanna had heard her father speak of King Aerys' madness, his ticks and twitches. His volatile temper and his cruel jealous nature were the bane of many lord, it seemed Rhaegar too had felt its biting edge.  
"Your father-"  
"Was no father at all. If you can believe he is a better king than a father." He scoffed with a laugh that sounded harsh and held no happiness within it. "He has never loved me." He is so sad, so very sad, she thought, and so bitter it could melt the snow in the winter. "I dwelled in thoughts of tragedy, of fire, of death and when I begged the maester to cure me he only said "It is the curse of Kings, young prince. No cure can be given to melancholy but happiness, discover happiness and you will find your cure." I have searched my whole life for a cure and here you are, blindingly beautiful."  
"How can I cure you if I don't know how?"  
"Day by day, it begins to fade. You are the light, the only brilliant flame in the night and slowly but surely it will go until I will not remember it at all." She felt a flush creep over her, her cheeks turning red. It is a large task he sets on my shoulder, to cure the darkness. She pressed her lips to his and whispered into his mouth.  
"Then I will try." When they broke apart she fell back onto the pillow, his head between her breasts, her long dark hair covering her shoulders. "And how can you speak of Harrenhal when women feel the same for you? They love you, every woman wants to bed you and every man prays to the Seven that they wake at dawn as the dragon prince."  
"They do not love me. They think they love but it is only a vision. I'm not the dragon prince, he does not exist." He traced the curve of her skin under one slender finger. "Mayhaps we are only destined to be a prize." He sighed.  
"And our lives a game? If so then we have cheated it dearly."  
"Or it has cheated us." He is right, she thought. Neither had a choice who we married, how we lived our lives. Perhaps being a woman and being a man were not so different, perhaps we were both chained to honour and duty in our different ways. She imagined him a King again, a dream she had many nights, a golden crown on his silver head. He will be free soon when he is King, but what will become of me?  
"One day you will have to return. For your throne and crown. For power." He did not answer for a long while, his eyes closed to her, to the world beyond their tranquil tower.  
"Yes, I will."  
"What do we do then?"  
"Targaryen Kings of old took two wives..."  
"Don't be foolish Rhaegar I cannot be your queen."  
"Why not? When I am King the law is mine to bend is it not?"  
"What of Elia? What of Dorne? Will they be satisfied with their princess being dishonoured in such a way?"  
"Dishonoured? Where is there no honour? Elia will still be a Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, our son will still be my heir. Dorne will not speak, and if they do words are winds. They will never raise their banners for such a cause."  
"Do you think my father and brothers would let me marry you Rhaegar? Do you think Brandon wouldn't turn against you for it, no matter how much I love you?"  
"Brandon and your father-." He started then stopped his eyes turned cold and distant as they had done before; he took a shallow breath then swallowed. "When I am King, things will be different, I have said it for so long but now will be the time. You will be my queen, Elia too, though your bed shall be my only place of rest and my heart yours alone. Your family will have no choice, neither will mine."

She rode out that morning, Rhaegar still asleep next to her. She took his still bloody clothes and packed them into the saddle bag along with some wine and bread. The horse cantered through the wild trees and her hair flowed behind her like a dark swelling current. She remembered riding through the Northern hills, spying Winterfell as only a speck behind her and wondering how wroth father would be should she ride off into the distance. She had wondered how long it would take to reach the Wall, how far must she ride to see it reach its icy peak. She wondered many things and dreamt even more but duty made her wheel her mount about and ride back home, to her well worn shackles of womanhood. She washed the clothes in the stream before laying them on the bank to dry and stripping off her own clothes to float in the cool water. She looked up at the sky and saw the shadow of the moon. She remembered the tale Rhaegar told her, how the moon had been the suns lover. She stood up in the water. I should wash and return or he will worry. She began to rub her skin quickly and her hair too. She rubbed down her breasts and her waist; she touched the place only Rhaegar had touched. She thought of his lips on hers, on his hands on her skin every night. She leant back in the water dreamily and stared at the moon again. I am his moon, she thought. His hands on her every night. She stood up suddenly in the water. She felt a sickness building in her and almost wretched but she only stared at the pale moon and clutched her head. Every night. Every night for nearly six moons.  
"No, no, no." She whispered. She tried to think of when she last bled but her mind was clouded with Rhaegar, his violet eyes, his sweet words and golden skin. She shook her head. Think. Two nights after she had left Storm's End, she remembered flushing crimson having to ask the girl that accompanied her to dispose of the bed sheets, she had miscounted the days. She felt herself getting breathless and she swam to the water's edge where she pulled her knees up to her chest. "No, please no." How can I have a child when I am still a child? How can I ever return to father a disgraced woman? He would be so ashamed; he would turn to ice before her eyes and never thaw. She had thought she had gotten a little rounder, her breasts much fuller but she thought this was the body of a woman grown. She curled up on the bank and did not think at all, there was no feeling left in her. The sound of the forest died away, the rushing water only a whisper and only her ragged breath broke her silence. Rhaegar rode to find her when night fell, he wrapped his cloak around her and she shivered violently. When she told him her news she cried again and he did too, but he smiled so broadly it was as if the sun was rising in the endless night, as if the brightest star had fallen to the earth and into her hands.


	21. Arthur

He was the lone knight in the tower.  
Ser Jaime stood with the King, silent in the shadow of the Iron Throne, but his brothers in white had been dashed like pale pebbles across a vast lake. Lord Gerold was the first to leave, the King losing his patience at last and demanding he return with Prince Rhaegar or not at all. Then it was Prince Lewyn, sent to his sister Princess Loreza of Dorne for her allegiance and her army, too long she had stayed silent and Lewyn had been told to remind her that her daughter, Elia and her grandchildren remained with him. How the Dornish Prince's face had clenched under the strain of those few words but he honoured his vows and left with the setting sun. Now Ser Barristan and Ser Jonothor had gone too, to gather what was left at Stoney Sept though many hundreds, thousands had returned, they streamed through the city day by day but there was only one King Aerys watched for. Arthur prayed for Jon Connington that night, he was said to be gravely wounded and it was by the Mother's mercy he escaped with his life, though he feared what awaited the proud lord at court would be far worse than any damage Robert Baratheon's hammer could ever do. He had been a trusted friend of the Targaryen family since his youth, when he and Rhaegar became great friends he became a familiar and loyal friend at court. He had accepted the honour of Hand with such pride, his red head held high, he must have thought when Rhaegar was King they would be together and there would be no need to ever return to Griffin's Roost but he had reached too high, he had edged too close to the flames and fallen; and the King would ensure it was a spectacular fall, Arthur had no doubt of that. Aerys had screamed such bloody murder when he heard Robert Baratheon had slipped through Jon's golden plated fingers. Varys brought word Lord Arryn had wed Lady Lysa Tully at Riverrun and Lord Eddard married to the daughter meant for his brother Brandon, the riverlands sealed their bonds with blood and Lord Hoster turned his back on his King for a noble wedding or two. He thought a wise old man like Lord Tully would have more wits than to ally himself with such rebellion.  _A daughter needs a husband and what did his King offer him?_ Prince Viserys would have made a worthy match for one of his daughters when he was of age, or even Prince [Aegon](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8288324/21/A-Realm-in-Rebellion) with his mothers blessing but that was too late, the little princes were too young and there was not the time to wait. Arthur stared out at the empty room and placed his broad hands on the colossal Book of Brothers that lay before him, bound in white leather it was two feet tall, a foot and a half wide and a thousand pages thick. He opened a page and he began to read,  
 _"Prince Aemon Targaryen, Lord Commander 140AL – 184AL."_  He was called the DragonKnight by some and was said to be the greatest knight that had ever wielded a sword, Arthur knew. He had loved his brother's bride, who was also his sister, Queen Naerys. He had ridden in a tourney dressed as a mystery night to crown his sister Queen of Love and Beauty, so that his kingly brother would not shame her by crowning his mistress over his wife.  _How Targaryen men have loved to crown women that weren't theirs to crown, perhaps dragonblood made them fond of things that were not their own._ He flicked through the pages before landing upon his own brothers nearest the back.  
 _"Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander,"_  Arthur's eyes found his own name on the page,  _"After being shot through the hand by an outlaw of the Kingswood Brotherhood Lord Gerold ceded command to fellow white brother, Ser Arthur Dayne."_   He turned the page again to see his own face stare up at him, either Lord Gerold who had drawn it had been much too kind or envisioned him as a much younger man than he did.  _I've never looked as handsome as that, not for a long while._  
 _"Ser Arthur, taking the command from the wounded Lord Gerold earned the trust of the smallfolk of the Kingswood, campaigning to King Aerys II on their behalf for their rights and the injustices they had seen. In doing so he brought about an end to the allegiance between the Kingswood Brotherhood and the people who lived there, leading to his single-combat defeat of the Smiling Knight and ended the threat of the outlawed brotherhood."  
_ "How difficult deeds sound so simple and noble in writing." He murmured.  _I do not recall it was as simple as that._  A few words of earning the trust of the smallfolk had in practice taken months and his single battle with the Smiling Knight had left him bruised for weeks. He, like his brothers, had done good deeds, had succeeded where a weaker man could not. Some of the Kingsguard had done what they did for duty and honour, others for the love of their King and realm, the worst did it for power or gold, there had been more than a few white brothers who were not so white at all.  _Perhaps my part in King Aerys' murders has soiled my cloak too._

The throne room was filled with the midday sun and even the dragon skeletons in the darkest shadows were lit, their black hollowed eyes watching. There was something of them there still, Arthur sensed it when he stared too long, as if their presence still lingered, they sensed their masters close and were merely waiting to be awoken. The King sat on the very edge of the Iron Throne, as he always did, eyeing the thousand blades with wary eyes, clasping his withered hands in his lap. Beside him on a golden chair sat Queen Rhaella, lovely in blue silks of every shade, from the deep night to the palest dawn, a glittering tiara in her silver hair. Her belly, he thought, was slightly swollen, Arthur had heard it rumoured she was with child though he heard many things whilst he guarded many closed doors but perhaps this one was true. It seemed the only time the Queen was not so sad was when she was with her children, though they only alleviated her pain for a fleeting moment, he hoped another would bring her the joy she so deserved. Prince Viserys sat on the other side of his father on a cushioned chair, his silver-gold hair brushed and he wore a velvet doublet of black and red, an exact replica of one Rhaegar had worn at Harrenhal, he looked so like him, though his eyes were a paler shade of violet.  
"Come forward Lord Manly." Cried King Aerys.  
"Lord Manly Stokeworth, Commander of the City Watch." A herald called.  
"Your graces." Lord Manly strode forward and bent to a knee in front of his King, his golden cloak rippled as he did. He was a man of average height with dark brown hair that had begun to turn grey, his cropped beard had begun to turn grey too.  
"You have a  _gift_  for your King do you not my lord?" He asked with a smile.  
"Aye your grace," he nodded, "If I may?" The King nodded eagerly, his pale eyes wide with excitement. "Bring him in!" He bellowed. Two gold cloaks appeared in the arched entrance to the throne room, between them a ragged mess of a man with a thick auburn beard and shaggy hair of the same shade. He must have once worn armour for he still had certain parts, a dented breast plate, a greave and his gauntlets remained but were rusted and dirty. They dragged him through the hall and threw him to the ground beside Lord Manly, who looked down, disgusted and took a step back. The man smelt strongly of urine and wine, he looked up at the King, his brown eyes empty. "Your Lord Hand, your grace." Jon Connington was nothing of the man he recalled, mere moons ago he had been strong, arrogant, young and above all, proud. There was no pride in this man before Arthur now. A shocked muttering swept the court. "He was slumped outside a tavern in Flea Bottom, says he stopped for respite on his way to the keep."  
"Lord Jon Connington, Lord of Griffin's Roost, Hand of the King." The herald said uncomfortably. Arthur stared at him, his face was bruised and battered, his cheek seemed a pulp beneath the beard that now covered it, his leg wobbled beneath him as he knelt and a blood stain on his thigh must have been from another wound. Yet there were no cuts, no tell-tale signs of a blade.  _These are the wounds of a hammer._  He had seen Robert Baratheon's warhammer at Harrenhal, heavy as stone and it took an incredibly strong man to lift and wield such force, it seemed the Storm Lord did so unfortunately well.  
"You have returned at last, Lord Connington." Aerys voice was breathless and airy, an excited whisper that was only a prelude to his wrath.  
"I have your grace." His voice shook though he raised his eyes to meet Aerys'.  
"Why? I ordered you to bring me Baratheon's head, I placed my trust in your hands. Do you deny failing your King?"  
"I do not deny it your grace. There were unforeseeable circumstances, Lord Stark's army allied themselves with Tully forces, we were outnumbered-."  
"YOU LET HIM SLIP THROUGH YOUR FINGERS," Aerys stood and screamed at Jon Connington who recoiled, jerking his head from the King. Beside Arthur, Queen Rhaella shut her eyes tightly and turned her silver head from her husband.  _She has felt the bite his anger too often._  "You assured me you could bring me this rebel lord's head. You have lied. It is treason to lie to your King, is it not my lord?" Aerys cradled his hand in the other as he spoke, raising his index finger to his eye. A drop of blood ran down the long slender finger, startlingly bright against his sallow skin. The thousand blades of his throne were still sharp, a reminder that his enemies who had once wielded them were too. He sucked on it and unknowingly smeared blood across his pale lips.  
"I-I am no traitor your grace. I have served you honourably, I have been a great friend of your family since I was a boy-."  
"You were a friend of Rhaegar's not of mine my lord. Even so I am a merciful King, I do not forget the good deeds you did once for my family. For that I will spare your life." Jon let out a relieved sigh, tears welling up in his eyes but Aerys did not look merciful and was not forgiving.  
"Thank you your grace, you are most merciful indeed."  
"But, no crime must go unpunished. I, Aerys of the House Targaryen, second of my name, King of the Seven Kingdoms, of the First Men, King of the Andals, denounce and attaint you, Lord Jon Connington. I strip you of all ranks and titles, of all lands and holdings and sentence you to exile. You must leave my Kingdom and to never return on  _pain of death_." The look of relief that had so recently washed across his face was wiped away as swiftly as the waves washed the shore.  _Mercy is not in a dragons nature, they all take what want and punish those who withhold it from them, from Aegon the Conqueror to the Dragonprince, they are all alike._  
"No your grace, please. I beg you, have mercy."  
"Lord Manly, make sure Jon Connington finds his way out of the city. Ser Arthur will accompany you." The gold cloaks who had dragged him in hoisted him up and his eyes filled with tears again but this time he did not stop them from falling.  
"Oh, a moment." He said with a light smile. "Leave the chain, another will surely need it." He held out his hand and Jon reached up to his neck with a defiant look, ripping the golden chain from him and letting it fall to the floor with a clatter. As they began to drag him to the door Aerys turned to Arthur. "Ensure my orders are done Arthur, ensure he has no gold or valued possessions on him."  
"Yes your grace." He bowed to his King and turned to bow to his Queen and Prince. As he strode down the hall, the court watching him he turned back and Aerys patted Viserys' head gently.  
"You see Viserys, what a King must do to those who forget?"  
"Who forget what father?" asked the young prince.  
"That we are dragons and they are nothing."

Arthur sat on his pale palfrey and the golden cloaks trotted ahead of him with Jon Connington between them, limping slowly. The speed of their procession bought many watchers as they made their way through the stinking city, some even recognising the newly exiled lord.  
"Which way do you wish to go Jon Connington?" called Lord Manly beside Arthur. Jon looked up at him with distain.  _It seems even exile will not vanquish all the pride from him_.  
"South." He muttered through gritted teeth.  
"The King's Gate is it then." They turned to head south from the Red Keep and the roads were bustling and busy, every eye watched Jon Connington and Arthur saw him crumble under their gaze. "Make way, by order of the King, make way!" Bellowed Lord Manly. The sun beat down on them and the city's stench rose, a mixture of sweat, blood, rotting flesh and the salty sea. The gigantic gate loomed up ahead and they quickened their pace towards it. Arthur recalled the first time he had ridden through it, still a boy though he felt a man, he had been sent a raven from the King in Lord Tywin's hand, acknowledging his prowess in battle and requesting he join the Kingsguard. He had taken the long road from Starfall, leaving the desert behind as he crossed the mountains on the Prince's Pass and joined the King's Road at Storm's End. A green boy then had walked under the gate and now a seasoned knight of the highest honour walked through them again, the opposite could be said for Jon Connington, who entered the city a Lord with powerful connections and wealth beyond measure and now he was a man, broken and beaten. He had reached beyond himself and fallen from grace, for greed, for power and for love. As they reached the gate the two city watchmen dismounted and began to remove Jon's possessions, his armour that was left, a coin purse with a solitary gold dragon inside and a golden ring wrought in the shape of a griffin. He held his bearded battered chin up and stood so still he might have been stone.  _He did his duty, his upheld his vow to his King which is less than can be said for many men in this time, yet he is punished still._  Arthur jumped from his mount.  
"Stop, stop!" He cried. "You cannot trust a city watchman to do a job well, I will search him. Get back on your horses you fools." Waving away the men and ignoring Lord Manly's insulted snort, Arthur turned to Jon so his broad back shielded them from the watchmen's gaze. He took his own coin purse from under his cloak and held it out slightly. "Here." He whispered. "It is not much but it will be enough for a maester to tend your wounds and a ship across the Narrow Sea. Pentos may be your best bet." Jon only shook his head slightly. "Take it, you will die without it." Jon reached out a shaking hand and took it, quickly stuffing into a pocket.  
"If Rhaegar returns will you-"  
"I shall tell him of your fate."  
"Thank you, thank you Arthur."  
"Now go. And farewell, friend."  
"Friend." He nodded. He turned on his heel and slowly began to limp past the gate and down the muddy path trodden by a thousand others leaving and entering King's Landing. Arthur watched until the sun set and the darkness swallowed the last of Jon Connington.


	22. Elia

Beneath her aching knees the cold marble floor pressed against her and the fading light pushed its way through coloured windows sending scattered rainbows across her skin. Above her towered the gleaming statue of the Mother, calm and merciful, candles gathered at her feet. Elia lit her own with a shaking hand and placed it amongst the others. _None can tell which prayer is a princess's and which a pauper's, we are all of equal worth to in the eyes the gods._  She had not been to Baelor's Sept in many years though it was a place of eternal faith and she supposed many princesses had knelt where she did and would long after she was gone. Beside her, a few feet to the left was the Father, broad and strong and between the two statues she had said her vows and Rhaegar had tied his black and red cloak around her. His hair had looked a thousand different colours that day, the crystal windows staining his silver hair with their light and in that one moment she had felt as beautiful as he. All seven bells in the seven towers of the sept had tolled for them and the commonfolk cheered as he kissed her on the altar, she had been content, she had been at peace. How those days felt like summer to the winter, they were the memories of sun now only dark clouds were above them.  _What do I pray for today?_ She asked herself. _W_ _hat else is there to pray for?_   The war had sent those she loved dearest scattered across the realm, sweet Uncle Lewyn had returned to her mother to gather the Dornish spears and Ashara had sent no word since she rode the Prince's Pass to Starfall. Only Oberyn sent his letters though even he had been silent of late, there was none she could turn to, she spent her days in the quiet dark of the Maidenvault, Queen Rhaella by her side and a hulking figure of Arthur Dayne in the shadows, who occasionally left to be replaced by Ser Jaime, who seemed to only mock her by growing more and more handsome with each passing day.  _What would I be if we had married instead? Would I still be a high lords crippled wife? Would your sons have[ripped](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8288324/22/A-Realm-in-Rebellion) their way from me too, or would they have been gentle like you?_  Mayhaps she would pray her dreams of a silver prince be replaced with one of golden hair. It was as if Rhaegar watched her from every shadow, his lithe body in every stone and deep eyes in every pool, she would hear his voice in every distant conversation and hurriedly hobble to the door only to find servants chatting merrily cleaning the floors, staring up at her perplexed. _Perhaps it is not only the Targaryen's who are mad._ She nudged her candle forward a little.  
"Guide me." She whispered. "Do not abandon me Mother." She had always been the most pious of her family, the Dornish held little value in the Seven, probably because most thought themselves gods instead. Oberyn had never had much time for gods that taught chastity and humility, though Doran had accompanied her once or twice when their mother didn't have him by her side. She never let him leave her, she was training him to be her heir and she was relentless in her teachings. She prayed for Oberyn to hold his sharp tongue and his even sharper spear, she prayed for all his little girls. She prayed for Doran's kind face and gentle heart, for his Arianne and his wife. She prayed for Rhaenys to grow strong. _Let her be like Dornish women, passionate and willful, let her be a woman never a girl, let her be nothing like me._  
"The Mother does not abandon her faithful children your grace." She turned and the High Septon in his glittering crystal crown stood in the centre of the sept, his shadow stretching wall to wall.  
"Can we truly know High Septon? Can mortals ever know what the gods intend for us?" He looked down on her, kneeling before the ever silent gods with pity, his fat face crinkled at the eyes.  
"Terrible things happen to those who do not deserve them princess."  
"Have I sinned without knowing? Have I angered the gods?" She did not whisper anymore and the few septas praying to the Maid looked around to her.  
"I cannot know. The gods shield their children in need, pray princess and they will aide you."  _He is a liar_ , she thought darkly.  _T_ _he gods shield no-one._  She sat silently in the wheelhouse that swayed precariously on the steep ascent to the keep, she had a beautiful wheelhouse her mother had given her before her wedding, gold and gilded, an ornate opulent thing it was. She had been journeying from Sunspear to King's Landing with Ashara and her maids and escort in tow, when the carriage had come to a standstill, she heard shouts from outside and peaked through the hangings to find the wheelhouse surrounded by armoured men. One had her brother's dear friend, Ser Ryon Allyrion at swordpoint. _"Lower your blade ser,"_ she had said, _"I am a princess of Dorne and my purpose is with the King."_  
 _"Is that so?"_  He had said cockily, pushing his dark hair from his dirt covered face.  _"Well I've never had a Dornish girl, let alone a princess."_  Ser Ryon had clenched his jaw so firmly she thought it may shatter.  
 _"Touch my sister, ser and have no doubt I will make you a head shorter."_  Oberyn with his black eyes narrowed, a viper coiling to strike.  
 _"No need for such violence my royal friend, I only desire a kiss from your fair princess."_  She had thought Oberyn was going to cut every man who stood between them with the wrath the flared in his eyes then but Elia had obliged this outlaw for peace's sake and he had gotten his kiss. His hand on her neck her had unclasped her jewelled necklace.  _"Though it was a sweet kiss my lady, I fear gems are sweeter still."_   It was only when Ser Arthur arrived with the Kingsguard beside him did the Kingswood Brotherhood seek solace in the trees beyond the reach of the greatsword Dawn and the road was safe once again. She had thought for half a moment this pale haired warrior was Rhaegar and though Ser Arthur did have some dark beauty that some may not be frightened of she had thought her mother had rather exaggerated his fair face. The keep loomed up before her now as it did then, though it felt like home as she passed under the great walls and had been nothing but another stone cage then. She was helped from the carriage and she looked up at the castle, the giant Targaryen banner flapping noisily in the wind on the highest wall beside it six shrivelled, blackened heads. She wondered where Ser Brandon and Lord Rickard's were, they had not joined their kinsmen on the wall, she had been called to court that day but had been too sickly to attend, she was glad of it to hear the gruesome tales of those who had been there.  _Poor Ser Brandon so young and fair and dead before his time. Such is life that the young do perish and the old do linger._

She dined in the Maidenvault, as she did every night, Rhaella by her side and Rhaenys picking at her food slyly flicking almonds at Viserys across the table that he haughtily tried to ignore before losing his temper and flinging the bowl at her which shattered noisily on the floor, spilling a thousand nuts across the room.  
"Aerys has word Prince Lewyn is returning from Dorne, he will be returned to us soon my dear." Said Rhaella hazily.  
"That is good word, though the gods are cruel to bring him back to me only to send him to war so soon after." If women's punishment was childbirth, men's was surely war. Soliders fell as swiftly as the wind changes and none ever batted so much as an eyelid. _When did we all become to cruel as to value life so poorly?_  
"Yes the  _gods_  are cruel." She nodded, tucking a silver ringlet behind one delicate ear.  
"Is it true, mother, that Lord Eddard has married Lord Hoster's daughter?"  
"The King believes so, as does Lord Varys. She is said to be with child already."  
"Only war breeds babes with such haste."  
"Men wish to know that should they die on the field their blood will linger on."  _A sweet way to excuse the whoring of soldiers._  
"But what if Robert Baratheon chooses to march on King's Landing? How will blood linger if we are trapped within the keep?" She had imagined the sound of marching men, looking from her tower and seeing their torches and yellow flags. She would clutch Aegon close to her breast and pray to the Mother to spare her children but in her mind she never did.  
"Do not fret child," she patted her hand softly. "Mace Tyrell still holds the siege at Storm's End, the Baratheon fleet is trapped and the Red Keep cannot be taken by land, not without ships. My royal husband assures me so, though even he is doubtful of late. I begged him to call on Lord Tywin's aide but..." her words trailed off and she traced a blooming bruise on her cheek and said no more. "Well what do women know of war?" Her sad eyes gazed up at her and Elia felt as if Rhaella knew more of war than any warrior, it was not only battlefields where battles were fought.  
"Mayhaps you are right mother."  
"Rest easy child, should the war creep too near we will retreat to Dragonstone and our children will be safe." Elia felt somehow she would not feel safe at all on that storm battered tomb on its stone in the ocean.  
"What of Rhaegar? He is your child too, I could not leave without him."  
"How my heart would break to leave when he had not returned to us, my sweet first born son. You will learn Elia the leniency a mother must have where her heir is concerned, how she must loosen her loving grip on him. You must give Aegon over to his father when the time is right, as I did had to with Rhaegar. His father will hone him like a whetstone to a blade until there is nothing of the babe you held in your arms a lifetime ago. He will be only a shade of the man you dreamed he would be." She stared silently at Viserys a while, pushing back a silver ringlet from his face gently. "We pray for such simple things for our children do we not? Love, light, freedom, but where is there time for foolish things when you are a King?"  
"Did we not sacrifice the same things?" She asked, almost indignantly.  
"We did, my child. Duty leads us down many paths. Some are lit with flaming torches, others are dark as winter."

She trod the unfamiliar hall to her temporary chamber, a chambermaid had left the fire unattended and the beg hangings had caught alight. Elia had been furious to think the beautiful carved bed was damaged but she had been assured it was not. The bed in this room was smaller than the previous but still large enough for four men side by side. It hung white silks and the wood was light and pale too. She lay back in the unfamiliar sheets, beyond her window was only the sea, the bustling city gone from sight with only the waves for leagues. Oberyn was said to be across the Narrow Sea, maybe he was in Pentos, maybe he would take a ship to King's Landing and demand she return to Sunspear, she had waited for Rhaegar long enough, the south called her home.  _If he returns he will know where I am but will he come for me?_ She cocooned the blankets around her and wondered as she closed her eyes, as she did every night, where he was, whether his northern queen was wrapped in his arms or between his thighs. She did not cry any longer, emptiness remained where Rhaegar had been, he was only ashes where he had once been ablaze.

She walked through the dark halls of Baelor's Sept, no sunlight cast coloured shadows in the night, there was a bitterly cold wind that whipped her hair around her. She saw a figure in the corner of her eye, his silvery hair clung to his grey skin in dripping tendrils, and his eyes were blue like the heart of an icy mountain. Rhaegar's face was bruised and battered, blood clung to his lips and a great crack appeared in his bare chest, she saw his heart in his broken ribs, it too was broken and did not beat.  
"Only lions can move mountains." He said, he kissed her and she tasted the iron on his tongue, tasted the sweet flesh. She did not know what he meant, she wanted to ask, to stay with him, but a glowing flame in the dark drew her eyes and she felt it call to her.  
"What is ahead?" She asked instead, looking beyond him down the hall.  
"A Stranger." She turned to him but the hall was gone and behind her the sept had expanded and the high glittering ceiling was above her. All the statues of the Seven were gone, and no candles burned for them. In the centre of the altar was a singular marble figure. A slim, sad woman in stone though no less beautiful than she was in life, Lyanna Stark, Elia knew her face so well, she thought of it more often than Rhaegar's.  _How could_   _such a lovely face be so cruel?_  In front of her were three fires, each burned brightly, white flames crackling so startling in the darkness she shielded her eyes from them. Across the statues back was a dark cloak and Elia moved around the room to see it, though the fire did not light her here. She stepped towards the statue and held the cloak up to her face, a red dragon with three heads gazed up at her with hollow eyes. She stared at her wedding cloak, the wind biting at her neck and she felt a sudden wetness beneath her feet and looked down to see a pool of blood spreading slowly from the statue, she ran around it, the blood spattering across the smooth floor as she did, searching for the wound. She looked up at the beautiful face of the sculpture, so well chiselled she might have been real, a dark red stain appeared around her waist and the pool of blood became a lake until her toes were obscured. The fires hissed as the dark liquid engulfed them, she looked around desperately for someone to help her, to heal a bleeding corpse. She saw a shadow in the corner of her eyes but it was only her reflection in a crystal window and she saw her own dress had a gored stain around the waist too, and when she looked back to the marble woman she did not bleed any more. A voice whispered in the darkness, a foreign flourish to her words. _Daggers in the dark, daggers in the dark_. Elia felt the blood trickling down her own legs and realised the pool on the floor was her own. The sept became darker,  _I am dying_ , she thought, she could not breathe and far away a man screamed and a woman's joined him in screeching, unending agony.   
When she woke it was night and the castle was so still she may have been the only one in it. The room felt eerily quiet too, the air was stale, she saw the dream so clearly in her mind and it did not fade but lingered. She tasted the iron in her mouth and wretched over the side of the bed and in the dark it looked like blood.


	23. Rhaegar

 

He stared up at the cracked ceiling, bored, the twilight was quiet and Lyanna slept silently beside him.  _When the babe is born I am sure I will crave such moments of solitude._ Rhaenys had screamed such bloody murder every night for weeks after her birth; he had wondered how it is she had a voice at all. Though for one to be born so bloody, he could not blame her for her wailing, the damage it had done his poor wife was evidence enough. Stitched back together, inside and out though she never cried herself, not after their daughter was born, she only glowed proudly and said  _"The next will be a son, I am sure my love."._  She had been right in that. He wondered what Aegon looked like now, babe's as they so often do, grow swiftly but purple eyes and silver hair were things he would not grow out of. A Targaryen prince with Dornish blood, a fearsome King he would be too.  _And young,_ he thought. When Aerys' died Aegon would be King, a King before his tenth name day no doubt. A young King was a weak King and with Robert Baratheon so keen on sitting his arse on the Iron Throne he might just do so. He supposed Elia would be Queen Regent but she was still viewed as a foreign stranger by some in court and a woman, no matter how sharp was still a woman. She was clever, she would call on her brother to ride to King's Landing, he'd never known a man Oberyn Martell could not charm, or woman for that matter. He was comforted by the thought of the Red Viper galloping to the Red Keep as he lay staring up at the ceiling, he almost heard the hooves thundering across the earth. In fact, he did hear hooves thundering across the earth. He bolted upright and cocked his ear to the balcony.  _A rider approaches._ He dashed across the room, grabbing his sword belt and wrapping it around his waist and pouring a bucket of water over the crackling fire that must have made their tower a lit beacon in the mountains. He slowly closed the door behind him and took the stairs two at a time, throwing himself through the empty doorframe as the rider grew closer, its horse snorting and his heart throwing itself against his chest as he panted. A white figure flickered through the trees and then out of sight again and he squinted in the failing light.  _Friend or foe?_  he thought.  _Even my friends are foes to me now._  He drew his sword and it was so familiar in his hand, it was as if his [skin](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8288324/23/A-Realm-in-Rebellion) fell into the crevasses of the ruby hilt, as if they had been waiting to fill them again. A white horse skidded into the clearing around the tower steps and a knight dressed all in ivory sat on it. Lord Gerold Hightower, he knew the Lord Commander's armour by sight, even helmed the White Bull was known to him. Gerold stared up at the ruined Andal structure, seemingly blind to Rhaegar.  _He is a friend_ , he told himself, but he did not lower his sword.  
"My lord." Said Rhaegar calmly though his breath was still shallow.  
"Prince Rhaegar?" He said, with a mixture of relief and apprehension as he dismounted and took a step towards him. "Your father has sent me across the realm to find you, even Lord Varys heard no whisper of you. You must return."  
"I cannot my lord." he said shaking his head.  
"Your place is at King's Landing with your family and on the battlefield, to lead your father's failing war against Robert Baratheon. He has the North, the Riverland's and the Vale at his command. Your kingdom needs you to be a King."  
"My place is here." Lord Gerold closed his eyes tightly before staring up again at the stone tower. "I will not leave, not for anyone."  
"She is here, you took her." His white head drooped and guilted flooded Rhaegar like the tide the beach.   
"I did." He started towards Rhaegar so suddenly he had no time to back away.  
"Do you know what you have done?!" he bellowed, grabbing his shirt collar using all his might to hold Rhaegar.  
"Lord Gerold." Rhaegar pushed him away.  
"The realm bleeds! _Thousands_ have died Rhaegar. Your father's kingdom is almost lost and for what? For the love of a woman who is not your wife?"  
"Gerold, there are things you do not understand." How could he make a man who had vowed chasitity a lifetime ago understand love? How could he make him see the all comsuming desire that he felt for her?   
"Robert Baratheon has nearly conquered your very birthright and the Lord and heir of Winterfell are naught but bones and ash yet you stay here playing at some fool's farce of love?"  
"Rhaegar?" Lyanna called from the top step. "Who is that?" Lord Gerold stared up at her silhouette in the starlight as if towards him walked a giant and he was a mouse not a knight. When she came closer his wide eyes fell on her swollen belly and he took an appalled step back.  
"What have you done..." there was no question and Rhaegar knew he did not seek an answer. She moved to stand beside him and he saw clutched in her hand a shining dagger.  _This is a Northern woman, there is wolf's blood in her._  "Rhaegar you are a fool, do you know what this means?" He did not bellow anymore, his voice was a withered, desperate whimper, it seemed all that was left of him.  
"I know more than you do my friend." He still dreamed of the dragon crown on his head, of the Iron Throne beneath him where it belonged. _They are dreams and this is real_ , he reminded himself. _I must live, not dream_.  
"Why must it be her? Of all the women in the world, why her? Betrothed to a brute, a war-mongering, blood-thirsty titan."  
"Rhaegar what is the Lord Commander speaking of?"  
"Lyanna, go inside, let me speak with Lord Gerold." She stood defiantly now, her eyes flashed.  
"Do not order me inside as if I am some common woman, I am not your wife that will do as you please."  
"No, you are not." Said Gerold. Lyanna threw him a wild glare and her lip curled, she was a snarling wolf.  
"Lyanna please, I beg of you to do this for me." She turned her wrath on him now but seemed it seemed to crumble beneath her. Their dream had ended and she knew it too, but she nodded curtly and turned back to the tower.  
"She does not know Gerold, none of it." He whispered.  
"Is it love that keeps you from telling her or fear?"  
"I am blood of dragon, I know no fear."  
"My prince, I beg you to return. I have fear even if you do not. Between your father and the rebel lord there may not be a realm left to rule." Rhaegar turned to watch Lyanna ascend the stone stairs heavily, a protective hand on her stomach.  _If only I had taken her across the sea sooner, where no knight or king or duty could find me._  "Your friends have died for what you have done your grace."  
"Friends? Which friends?" He asked desperately, he did wonder why it was not Arthur that came for him and he felt his pulse throb in his throat.  
"Ser Myles, Robert Baratheon killed him at Stoney Sept."  
"How could merciful gods be so cruel? He was barely a man..."  
"Lord Connington, he-,"  
"No, no do not say my dear Jon is lost to me too? Do not say this rebel cousin of mine has taken him from me." He imagined Jon bloody and white lost on the battlefield, he made him sick, the guilt was like to kill him.  
"He is not dead my prince but... exiled."  
"On what cause?"  
"Treason I am told. He was raised to Hand and failed to kill the Storm Lord at Stoney Sept. Word is he looked near dead when he was thrown before the King and sentenced to exile from the realm on pain of death." Gerold looked around as he had done before but there were no spiders or little birds here. "I fear King Aerys has lost the last of his mind."  
"And I am meant to find it?"  
"You are his heir, you are meant to rule in his place when he cannot and Rhaegar, he  _cannot_. He would have us burn cities on whispers. You are the Prince of Dragonstone, do not let him turn a land you were born to rule to ruins before there is a crown on your head." Rhaegar sighed, defeated. He knew Gerold was right, he knew for the sake of his fore-fathers, for every dragon before him who had conquered with fire and blood he must turn back and face his final demon.  
"We should have done it at Harrenhal, Jon told me he had heard word from Elia's mother all the houses of Dorne would stand behind me, the Tyrell's' too. The Crown lord's stood with Dragonstone and the maester at Winterfell was for our cause. It would have only been a matter of time before the Iron Throne was mine and as all true Targaryen's do, I would have taken what was mine. In fire and blood."  
"You will take the command?" He asked hopefully, his bushy eyebrows raised, leaping into his crinkled forehead.  
"I shall and then, I will be King." Lord Gerold only stared silently at him.  
"Then we will ride this night."  
"No, you must stay. If King's Landing falls and I with it, then a Targaryen must sit the throne. Lyanna will birth a son, I know it. You must take him across the Narrow Sea if Robert Baratheon comes for her, hide them away. When the time is right, you can bury a sword in Baratheon's heart and burn him." He did not dare to think of never seeing their son, of never knowing his smile, or whether he had purple eyes or grey. _I may never even know his name_.  
"My duty is to the King."  
"And I will be a King, as could my child. Aegon is safer than any, they will not breech the Red Keep with their fleet under siege at Storm's End." Gerold watched him, a strained expression across his face as though tormented by the choice. "I must go back up, I cannot leave her with nothing."   
When he entered the room, breathing heavily from the climb Lyanna had not lit a new fire, she only waited in the growing darkness.  
"What does he mean by war-mongering? What has Robert done?" He had dreamt Lord Rickard in flames the previous night, he had smelt the burning flesh in his nose, he almost thought it was real, when he had woken suddenly, shaken and Lyanna had asked what he saw. He had lied but now it was on the tip of his tongue.  _How can I tell her such a thing then leave her? If she knows they are dead she will ride after me, then past me to Winterfell and no rebel army nor sword will stop her.  
_ "Robert Baratheon rose his banners against the crown, after I took you."  
"You did not take me, I left of my own will. I am no thing to be taken." She let out a long shallow breath and put her head in her hands. "I knew he was violent, even a brute but I did not think him a fool." She muttered.  
"I must return, to end this war."  
"You're going to kill him?" she asked. He did not know why but the question irritated him.  _Why should she care if I kill him? He is nothing to her now.  
_ "I will cut his heart from his chest and burn Storm's End til it is naught but ash if I have to."  
"You would leave me?" her voice was small and for a moment he was reminded how young she was. Barely flowered and already with child, she was fierce but still so sweet and innocent to the true bloody way of the world.  
"I was born to a King, it is as part of destiny as you are."  
"I do not need you to be a King, I need you here. I was without you for what seemed a life time, do not leave me in another lonely tower."  
"I must go," He said and he felt his voice crack under his sorrow. "To ensure we may live a life outside our lonely tower Lyanna, so that you can sit beside me, always." Before his own eyes she was suddenly leagues away, all the time he had spent breaking her bonds of their old life had disappeared and all at once she was distant and icy.  _Was this the face that spilt the blood of a thousand men? And would watch a kingdom burn with its King?_  A face that with its kiss could heal a broken man just to break him once again? "I must go, it is war, thousands more will die for what I have done should I not return."  
"What if  _you_  do not return?" He thought it too, how he had seen men die and there was nothing poetic or graceful about how a man would beg for mercy and with the same final breath shit himself as the Stranger took him.  _Are we only skin and flesh and blood held together with bone?_  How sad if it is all he was, his blood was no more red, had no more fire in than any man. Yet he knew there was something more eternal, perhaps something else waited just out of reach that he could never know in this life, a pale silvery place amongst the distant stars where the happiness he had found in Lyanna would expand throughout the cosmos of his mind and it was there he would find peace.  
"Then I will wait for you, wherever it is we go." Her face was such iron, her beautiful mouth clenched so tightly he imagined it would shatter but her eyes were wild and watery, a solitary tear streaked across her pale skin and he felt as if his heart had been caved in by some fell beast. He thought he would pack his things but knew it would only make her sadder still so decided against it. He walked over to the window, where the air still tasted hopeful and pure as it had done hours ago but now the room was drowned in melancholy.  _Do I bring it with me wherever I go, this dark shadow that follows me?_  The harp rested against the shrunken, battered old chair and he wondered how many lovers had loved and lost in this very room for centuries. He picked it up in his hands and felt the familiar strings beneath his fingers and placed it on the bed beside her but she only stared ahead, unmoving as if he were the wind and she, a wall in which his words would find no purchase. "One day, our child will play a song and we will forget such troubled times." He reached across so his hand rested on her swollen belly. Another child he might not know, one he had given life, a child finally born of love who would live in the fearsome shadow of a rearing stag.  
"A babe should have a name, even a bastard one."  
"No child of mine or yours shall be a bastard, you will be mine wholly and truly, our child too. As for a name, I have wondered on both Stark or Targaryen names but which will it be?"  
"Neither." She said flatly. He knew she had the faces of her brothers flashing through her mind, he had thought he would suggest Brandon but she would ask why and he could not answer.  
"For a son, Arthur or perhaps Jon? For my dearest friends, if you do not wish for a family name."  
"Jon..." she said thoughtfully. "When you return we will decide."  _If I return she meant_ , but again that fear hung unspoken in air between them. He heard Gerold jostle in his armour beyond the door, how quickly he returned to his well honed skill of the silent guardian. If there was ever a moment to leave her it was this but he could not.  _Let war wage, let them die, let another have a crown I have been born to take._  His Uncle's words came to him, as if an icy northern wind had brought them from the Wall, love is for boys, a man sacrifices those he loves, his freedom for duty and honour.  _Mayhaps I can change this dishonourable man I have become._  He clenched his jaw and stood slowly, feeling his sword against his hip, quivering with longing to be drawn. He pulled a chest from beneath the bed and inside it was his thick black cloak, the three-headed dragon gleaming in ruby thread upon it and placed it beside the harp.  _Aegon may be the Prince That Was Promised but this child will be ice and fire, that song shall belong to him._  
"It is not goodbye, this is only our beginning."  _Then why does it feel so very like the end?_   "I love you, with every part of me. I will return for you and you will be my Queen and I will make us safe." He kissed her and it was only then did the tears start to leak from under thick lashes. When he pulled apart from her she did not open them and when she did he was gone.

The Red Keep loomed high above him dark and sleepy, a southern wind whipped his cloak around him, it was warm and soft as if it bought Lyanna's touch with it. He had turned back only to see her standing in ivory on the balcony, her hair wild around her but her face was iron and her skin stone, as unmoving as the mountains. As he passed under the King's Gate he felt the still tension in the air that war had brought. The city seemed more full than usual, soldiers responding to the call of their liege lord and King had gathered in the city awaiting order. As he cantered through the stinking streets a few drunken men halted their slurring rendition of The Bear and the Maiden Fair and watched him from outside a tavern, their bloodshot eyes widening comically. He urged Raider on until the great oak door to the Red Keep stood before him, locked for the night. He banged on it loudly with a closed fist and it echoed around the silent towers. He wondered if the last man to have done such a thing was Brandon Stark, he wondered if his father's mind was so lost that he might have the same fate.  
"The gate is closed for the night!" a voice called from high.  
"Really? How foolish of me not to have noticed." He banged again.  
"The gate is closed Ser, return at dawn if you have business within the keep." A head appeared framed against the sky as it called back.  
"I am the Prince of Dragonstone guard, my business is always within the keep." More heads popped over the walls and those in gold cloaks leant over to get a better view of him.  _Let us hope the silver hair is shining brightly this evening,_  he thought.  
"Prince Rhaegar?" Asked the voice flabbergasted, "You have returned."  
"Indeed I have. Now in the name of the King, open the gate." The whisper of his name travelled along the wall until the night teemed with it like the hum of some buzzing insect. He felt eyes on his head as trotted into the courtyard and dismounted his horse, even when he passed below the walls he felt as if he were being watched.  _Spiders and little birds._ The throne room was dimly lit and empty, the shadows of great dragons cast on every wall. He stared at the great Iron Throne, forged by the fires of Balerion on the Black Dread, he stared until he saw himself, a golden crown on his silver head, a northern queen by his side and a dark haired son by his knee.  _That is my destiny now._  
"Gods be good! Your grace you have returned." Lord Varys had slipped silently from the council room beside the throne, his silken slippers making no sound on the marble floor.  
"I have my lord. I have returned to win a war. Though I am sure you expected my return."  
"Well, yes." He tittered, a girlish giggle to his voice that made Rhaegar's lip curl in disgust. "I heard whispers as I do, of a silver haired beauty riding the Storm Land's with haste, though even I can never be sure of whispers."  
"No little birds sang little songs of where I have been?"  
"Ah my fair prince, it seemed you have trumped me at last! Even I could not find you, my birds have failed me and you are victorious." He smiled sweetly but his eyes did not, it made Rhaegar think that he lied even now, that he had known where he had been all along. "Your father awaits you in his chamber, I fear if you wished to surprise him I have already taken that joy from you."  
"How kind of you Lord Varys."  
"It is not often I bid such welcome news to our merciful King, it was a pleasure I could not refuse."  
"I'm sure it is the only pleasure one can get." Rhaegar said, raising an eyebrow as he eyed the crotch of Vary's empty robes. "Good night, my lord." He turned on his heel, leaving the throne and the spider behind him.  
The room was dark, it was always dark. A candle burned on every surface, in every crevice the flames flickered. As he walked past they swayed in the breeze he brought. His father sat at a table, papers crumpled on the floor and more littered the surface. His hair was longer, ratty, unkempt as were his nails, the wrinkles around his eyes had grown deeper. He didn't seem to see Rhaegar at all, he stared at a single candle that burned before him with wide wild eyes and every so often twitched slightly, his breath nearly extinguishing it each time he did.  
"Father?" Rhaegar called unsurely. Aery's twitched again, more violently and blinked, startled, as if his son had appeared from thin air.  
"You have returned." His spoke softly, almost at a whisper. Others might take it for weakness, but he knew it was menace. He did not feel like a prince, a knight, a man. He was a boy and that voice made the fine hair on his arms stand and he swallowed. "And where has my son been?" He pushed back the chair and stood slowly. His tall slender frame cast an odd shadow over the room as he stepped around the wooden table towards Rhaegar. His robes were black, they hung from his skeletal frame and in that moment he was death. Rhaegar could see now, he would be their entire end. "Answer me." The command was full of icy wrath and Rhaegar did not know what to say.  
"I have been..-."  
"With the Stark girl."  
"Father I-" He took a giant step forward and with one gaunt hand he clutched it around Rhaegar's throat, his long yellow nails biting his skin.  
"Do not  _lie_  to me!" His voice was a screaming whisper, the whites of his eyes filled Rhaegar's vision as his father gripped him tighter, there was strength in this old man yet. "This is your doing my son." His voice lowered again and his breath was in Rhaegar's ear "When you dream, dream of every man that will have died for you." He let go and Rhaegar held at the skin where his father's nails had cut. As he walked back around the desk his black robes made it appear as though he floated and he muttered to himself, looking about the dark room as though he had heard a noise or a whisper.  
"You murdered Lord Stark and his son." He spoke strongly now, when he thought of how it would hurt his lover to hear it, he had no fear for his father then.  
"Traitors. Liars."  
"And Lord Merryweather? Was he a traitor too?" The fat old Hand was burned like the rest and the question unanswered. Rhaegar thought of his dear friend Jon Connington, exiled and stripped of all lands and titles. The image made Rhaegar wroth, the dragon rise within him and he clenched his fist. "How can we think to crush this rebellion if you should madly slay any man who displeases you?"  
"I have seen to it that our ranks are replenished." He gave a sudden snicker and shook his head twitchily. Rhaegar raised an eyebrow confused.  _Where had he found the men? How had he convinced some poor lord to give up his men at the final hour?_   "The Dornish are fond of protecting their own it seems." He suspected when he noted Prince Lewyn absent that he had been sent back home, to remind the Prince of Dorne that his sister was married to the Crown Prince and held great allegiance to the Targaryen's.  
"Elia is no pawn in your war." His voice was iron and he felt the fire burn in him, coarse through his veins, yearning to burst free.  
"When ten thousand men march up the Dornish Pass you will not be so wroth Rhaegar." He felt spit fill his mouth in anger .  
"You would put my wife and the heir to your own throne, in danger because you mean to play a game with me? You wish to punish me?" Aerys watched his son with a vacant expression which only fuelled his anger. "If we do not succeed in battle then my son and daughter will die, my wife will die. Mother, your wife will perish too. You will not use Aegon as you have the Lannister boy, do not take his life from him before he has lived it." His cousin would have to wipe all Dragon blood from this realm before he could safely claim the throne. The Storm Lord would slay him, his father and his son in one single blow of that mighty hammer and hunt Viserys down to the ends of the world to make their fate his. "Please father,  _I beg you_  to call on Lord Tywin for aid."  
"Never." He whispered.  
"Do not let your hatred cloud your mind father. He has powerful forces at his will, he has not pledged my cousin fealty. He is a worthy ally."  
"Do not think to tell me my own mind, I am the King." He shouted.  
"When Robert Baratheon storms this castle, kills your children and then turns his hammer upon you, how much longer do you suppose to be King?"  
"You will not fail me Rhaegar. Not this time." The insult cut Rhaegar like a blade through his heart, he turned on his heel and stormed toward the door. With his hand on the door he turned back into the darkness.

His chamber too was dark, with a single candle lit beneath a small statue of the Mother. He lay down on the bed beside the bundle of blankets that was his wife. Elia rolled over to face him and was shrunken and frail, ghostly white and her cheekbones sunken crevasses into which he was sure her tears had fallen.  
"I have waited." She said. Her voice was not strong or light anymore it, floated, airy and without purpose and he was reminded with a painful pang of his own mother. "I have waited and waited, the moon has turned a thousand times and the sun risen just as many. Our daughter, our sweet child has cried, how she has cried for you. Your dearest friends have suffered, lost their lives and their homes and the world has burned and the kin of  _your beloved_  has fallen weak kneed before the dragon once again. And yet you did not seek me still." Even in her frail body a strong woman still lived. She is not defeated, not yet.  
"My father required my attention, but it was my desire to return to you at once."  
"Is it shame that brings you to me now? Or a false sense of loyalty to one you promised your life to? Do not feign love Rhaegar, I have quite forgotten what it is to be loved." _I did not wish to hurt her, yet her heart is broken and I cannot heal it_.  
"I hold you in my heart Elia, it is true but you are not alone there, there is another." She flinched and closed her eyes tightly as if she could shut away the world and his words.  
"I prayed that it was not true. I prayed until my knees were bloody and there were not a candle left on this earth that my flame could not light but what use is there praying for a man who answers to no god?"  
"Forgive me." He whispered and he reached out to clutch the bony hand. "It was my destiny, she is my fate."  
"And what of me? What of my life and my fate? All I did was love you," Her hand was cold as it cupped his cheek, he felt the bones rippling beneath her skin. "From the moment we met, I loved you. I did my duty, I paid my price for love." She wept and her voice cracked and quaked over every word. "I was loyal and kind and I gave you a son. I did my part, yet you could not play yours. I fooled myself for so long that I was more than just a piece in your father's game of thrones, that you were different. But in the end, dragons are all alike, they burn so brightly, then take flight until only the scars they made remain."  
"When the war is done we shall heal them together." He wanted nothing more but knew it was too late, she could not forgive, she could not forget. "I must go, to find our children. We are to ride to war on the morrow and I have the command." He rose slowly, straightening up, though he did not wear his armour any more he felt a heaviness on him still.  
"Do you love her, truly?" Her eyes glistened in the dimness, glassy and watery.  
"I often think loving her is the truest thing I shall ever do. And that, with all my heart, I so wished that had been you." As he turned to leave he thought she was no viper, she was a dragon, strong and resilient with skin of steel. There was no woman more deserving of love than her and if he prayed to the Seven he would have prayed for her to find it. She was a wilted flower instead, with cracked armour that faded with each step he took away and though he had been close enough to touch her she might as well have been the stars.

He slept restlessly, the unfamiliar bed was hard and uncomfortable. He woke every few moments, thinking of his father's hand around his neck, the final flame that had burnt out in his marriage and his fair Lyanna, alone so far away. He knew it would do no good to lie in the darkness and dwell so he rose and dressed. There was one he had not seen yet, one who he had avoided because he knew those dark eyes would not tell him the comforting lies he wanted to hear. He made his way to the bench they sat on, staring up at the stars so often when he could not sleep and on it now sat a solitary figure.  
"I thought you would come here." He said, his deep, slow voice seemed to fill the air, the castle was so silent he feared it would carry.  _What difference does it make who hears me now? What words can the spider whisper to damage my honour that have not already done myself?_  "I will not ask if it is true my friend, there are better places for such questions."  
"Yes, there are." He said solemnly. He felt in Arthur's dark eyes were all the shame he should have felt when he stood before his father. He wondered if Arthur still believed all men had honour when even his dearest friend had turned his back on his own kin.  
"Prince Lewyn will be with us by dawn, Ser Jonothor and Ser Barristan have already returned."  
"The numbers, are they strong?"  
"At a glance, forty-thousand with the Dornish. Enough to meet Baratheon on the Trident." After the evening's heavy words and bitter truths the lightness of the conversation took Rhaegar by surprise.  _I will be more frank when we are out of castle walls, Arthur deserves that._  
"I did not know it was the Trident we rode for."  
"He is said to wait for us. More Northmen gather there each day, it seems Lord Eddard is more capable than he once seemed." They sat in silence listening to the chirping oF many insects in the gardens, the trickling of water from the fountains and the hooting of a distant owl. Rhaegar wondered whether Baratheon could be defeated at all, or was his bloody cousin destined for victory. He thought of Lord Gerold dutifully guarding Lyanna and looked up at the high walls of the Keep.  _If the keep is breached no knight can keep the Storm Lord at bay._  He knew then, a pulling deep in his veins to survive, to continue beyond himself, so that this place would belong to those who raised it from the earth. Lyanna needed more than just a single guard if an army came for her. He studied Arthur and the thought came to him _. What other man would I trust with my blood, my life and my love?_  He decided then that Arthur would not see the rushing Trident, not feel the current beneath his feet nor the warm blood on his blade. "I suppose you heard of the fate of Brandon Stark and Lord Rickard?"  
"I did."  
"Still you did not return."  
"There are reasons Arthur, those I cannot tell you at this hour. But you must have loved a woman once, it is an all consuming fire, one that weak men cannot resist."  
"You had a duty here, to your wife and children. To your blood."  
"I know, I know. I am torn into a thousand pieces by vows and duty." He sighed. Arthur stood slowly glancing around cautiously.  
"We ride at dawn that is the order. The King has also requested Ser Jaime remain for his own protection." Rhaegar arched an eyebrow at Arthur who returned it with a cold stare.  _Jaime Lannister was not chosen for his blade but for his blood_.  
"At dawn then." Arthur nodded and swept from the gardens, his white cloak meandering around the twisting paths until he turned a corner and was gone.

Rhaegar stood watching the city beneath the keep. _They should all be sleeping still yet they say farewell to brothers, fathers, lovers and friends, some for the last time._ There was a hard knock on the door and Arthur appeared with Ser Jaime behind him.  
"Thank you Arthur. No, no stay." He said as Arthur made his way back to the open door. Ser Jaime walked in and closed the door behind him with a soft thud and Rhaegar paced in front of the window, watching the sun rise over the Red Keep.  
"I am sorry you cannot come to battle with us Ser Jaime." The knights golden head rose from its bowed position and he stared at the prince with his emerald eyes.  
"I could fight Prince Rhaegar, Let me-" Rhaegar held up a hand to halt him. He turned to face Ser Jaime and sighed.  
"We both know you are a more than capable warrior Jaime but I cannot permit you to ride with us."  
"You will not allow me the pleasure of killing the Storm Lord?" Rhaegar's mouth set in a hard line and his warm eyes became steel.  
"That pleasure will be mine, I assure you." He walked toward Jaime, his silvery hair a dusky rose in the dawning day. "My father needs his guard here, he desires that you remain." Ser Jaime raised a blonde brow, perplexed. "Who you are is why you must stay." Jaime remained confused, and Rhaegar shook his head. "My royal sire fears your father more than he does my cousin Robert. He wants you close, so Lord Tywin cannot harm him. I dare not take that crutch away from him at such an hour." Rhaegar sounded defeated, the King had deteriorated since his leaving and the beginning of the war. Rhaegar had seen for himself what was left when madness took a man's mind. Jaime took flinched at the prince's words and his face tightened as he clenched his jaw.  
"I am not a crutch. I am a knight of the Kingsguard." He spoke loudly and defiantly. Arthur met Rhaegar's violet eyes, he knew he thought of telling Jaime that Aerys had only chosen him for the White to hurt Lord Tywin, to deprive him of his heir. A knock at the door interrupted them and they turned, Prince Lewyn stood in his gleaming armour, his black hair slicked and dark eyes narrowed. Rhaegar had not seen him since he had left King's Landing in the dead of night, Lewyn had smiled at him as he loaded up his horse that night, not knowing he rode to dishonour. It was what he felt when he looked at Prince Lewyn and Arthur, and when he caught the accusing gaze of any at court as they passed by.  
"It is time Prince Rhaegar. The men are ready." Rhaegar nodded and Prince Lewyn departed, his footsteps echoing down the hall behind him. Ser Jaime stared at the empty doorway and Prince Rhaegar placed a ringed hand on Jaime's silver, armoured shoulder.  
"When this battle's done I mean to call a council. Changes will be made. I meant to do it long ago, but... well, it does no good to speak of roads not taken. We shall talk when I return." Rhaegar smiled at Jaime who looked past him numbly. Rhaegar did not need to tell him, he knew himself why he was a brother of the Kingsguard so young. Rhaegar turned to look at Jaime before he followed Prince Lewyn but only shook his head and he heard Arthur halt in the doorway.  
"We are only what we choose to be brother, not what we are born."

The moon was still pale in the sky when they began their march, through the silent crowds of King's Landing. His father stood by the drawbridge looking on coldly, his yellowing beard swept by the wind that beat fiercely down on Aegon's Hill. Ser Jaime stood beside him, his white cloak billowing out like a great sail and he stared at Rhaegar and his white brother's darkly with a look Rhaenys had often given him should he deny her a lemon cake or two _. He will protect my family as I have protected him._  Elia stood beside his teary eyed mother, clasping her hand. She did not cry, her black eyes were as cold as the King's. His mother clutched his face in her soft hands, a dark purple stain on her pale skin, her eyes the fairest shade of lavender.  
"There is no other I would trust our fate to, my son." He held her hands to his face, remembering how she had done so when he was a boy and sung in her soaring dreamy voice in High Valyrian, he barely knew the words but they were no less sweet.  
"I will fight with honour mother, I will make you proud." She shook her head with a sad smile.  
"I already am my sweet child." He kissed her hand and turned to Elia, she stared ahead, through him to the crowd beyond. He bent to kiss her cheek but she turned her head from him, he had shamed her. He thought of how broken she had looked the night before, how he had seen the same look on his mothers face and called his father a monster for putting it there.  _Maybe it is in our blood to be so cruel to women who love us_. He took her hand from his mother's instead and kissed that gently.  
"Be safe Elia." She stared at him, her eyes watered and one tear fell from them. It meandered down her cheek, past the rings beneath her eyes where he had caused her sleepless nights. He bent as if to kiss her again and he pressed his cheek to hers. "I have done you so many wrongs, do not judge me. I am weak and it is you who are strong." She let the silent tears fall in earnest down her face but she still stared away. He let her hand go and it dropped to her side, falling limply until his mother took it again. Rhaenys stood looking confused between them and stared up at him.  
"You can't go away again father, you must stay here." He smiled broadly, bending to his knee so he could gaze at her again.  _Remember her face, do not forget it_.  
"A true Targaryen princess." He chuckled then held out his arms for her, she rushed towards him but his cold steel held no comfort for her. "I will be back for you, I promise."  
"Promise." She murmured into the armour. He rose again and kissed Aegon in his wetnurse's arms. _I have been no father to him at all; whatever he becomes will be despite me. My son._ His mother clutched his hand again, cut and bruised, her stomach swollen, Viserys solemn beside her. Still his father watched coldly, he walked by him and mounted his horse in one swift movement. Prince Lewyn, Arthur, Ser Barristan, Ser Jonothor and Ser Oswell trotted forward, shining white knights and he donned his tall black helm, a black crow amongst doves. The sun rose, creeping into the sky bathing King's Landing in its pale glow, a horn sounded and the soldiers in the courtyard assembled behind him and he glanced over at his family before digging his heels into the horse's flanks and trotting beyond the gate into the sunlight.

 


	24. The Prince That Was Promised

The column marched behind him and through the trees he saw scouts on horseback galloping ahead. "Arthur, Oswell ride with me. Ser Barristan, keep the column." Ser Barristan nodded curtly and Rhaegar kicked into his mount urging him forward. They had ridden hard for days and barely slept, though Rhaegar rarely did. Sleep so often escaped him, he wondered how any had time for it at all. They came to a widening of the road and he turned in his saddle as the two white knights halted beside him.  
"Your grace?" Said Oswell.  
"You are the finest men I have ever known. Not only in sword but in heart. I will tell you a truth you must know, in our hour of dire need. I took Lyanna Stark." Ser Oswell was silent and Arthur shook his head solemnly. "As Ser Jaime protects the King and my family you too must secure the safety of my blood."  
"The Stark girl is not your blood." Ser Oswell said.  
"She is the barer of my child." Arthur stared at Rhaegar, his purple eyes wide. He stared at Rhaegar with such sadness, such regret. Rhaegar thought if his heart were not already broken it would break again.  _What selfish man does such dreadful things to those who love him?_  
"No, Rhaegar, please no, say it is not true." He wanted to take Arthur's hand, beg his forgiveness but he must speak before the soldiers caught up with them.  
"Elia will be protected as will my children. But only Lord Gerold stands between Lyanna and the whole world. Should King's Landing fall you must ensure a Targaryen sits on the throne. You will go to her and you will protect her as you would any of my blood."  
"We are the  _Kings_ guard," Oswell said, "We protect and serve the King."  
"My father knows naught of being a King. He is mad and should we return to King's Landing I will make sure he no longer sits on any throne, unless there is a throne in the deepest depths of seven hells that he may sit upon."  
"We could not let you do that."  
"Could you not? Yet you were so keen to help set him aside Oswell or had you forgotten? I will not let a madman rule this kingdom and I will not let a madman rule my life any longer. If you must kill me then do it, but know it is my intention." They only stared on silently. "She was worth it all." He said quietly and Arthur threw him a disappointed glare.  
"She was worth the lives of thousands of men? Of her brother and father? Of Ser Myles and Lord Connington? Was her face so fair that a whole land must bleed to keep it yours alone?" Rhaegar did not answer, his horse snorted, stamping its foot on the earth.  _What answer could he have that would replenish the life his actions had taken?_  He stared at floor in sullen silence, a whistling wind pushing its way through the trees.  _Kill the boy_ , he thought,  _and let the man be born._  
"This letter, written by mine own hand is for Lyanna Stark's eyes only, you will deliver it to her and only her if I should die."  
"What does is say?" He asked suspiciously.  
"This copy, is for whoever sits their arse on that damned throne in my place. You may read it." He took it and broke the wax seal carefully.  
" _I, Rhaegar Targaryen, first of my name , Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Seven Kingdoms declare in the name of my father King Aerys, second of his name, King of Westeros, the child of Lady Lyanna of House Stark and myself, legitimate."_  Arthur paused for a moment, only to stare wide eyed at Rhaegar before continuing.  _"He or she will bear the right to carry the name 'Targaryen' and the crest of our blood. If a son is born he will enter into the lineage of Kings and should my first born son, Prince Aegon, sixth of his name, fail to produce an heir of his own my second son shall succeed myself and have absolute right as the King of the Seven Kingdoms_." He saw a scout pass through the trees, he knew the column could not be far, he must return and command it. Then he would return and command the realm and his life. "Rhaegar..." he said, his words failing him again. "You would have a bastard rule in place of your own brother?"  
"I must explore every path Arthur, to ensure this dynasty survives. That is, of course unless my father has already damaged it beyond saving."  
"But-"  
"If King's Landing should fall and I at the Trident, Lyanna may be the last hope my blood has. When the time is right, give it to her."  
"If you fall..." He grimaced. "Dear friend, please. Do not send me away, let us stay beside you and fight for you."  
"For the love between us Arthur, protect the woman I love and our child. Should the dragon fall you must raise it from the ashes. I would ask such a thing of no other." He stared blankly for a moment, numb it seemed.  
"Then I shall go."  
"I too." Said Oswell solemnly.  
"Do not fret brothers, Lewyn, Jonothor and Barristan are with me still." He looked toward the road behind them as he heard the hoard approaching, the ever clinking of steel and horses _. Time has caught us short again_ , he thought.

The mist hung above the plains and the Trident roared, thundering towards the ocean. It drowned out any sound of sweet songbirds or praying men. He had barely slept though he knew it was unwise to be unrested for battle but every time he closed his eyes the water rushed up to greet him, the black tide washed him away. He would wake with a start and breathe heavily in the dark, sweat on his brow and his heart beating furiously. He could see the rebel army on the opposite bank, their fires burning and the Baratheon flag flapping violently in the wind. Somewhere in that mass of men was his dear cousin, so sweet in his quest to make him a head shorter that he had torn the realm apart.  _She is worth it, all of this._  Lyanna would be waking too, the sunlight pouring through those high windows, She would push her hair from her face and rub her swollen belly softly. _Has Arthur found her yet? Is she safe?_  
"Prince Rhaegar" a voice called behind him. He turned to see Prince Lewyn striding forward, his cloak freshly bleached, startlingly white. He had shown no warmth since Rhaegar had ridden into King's Landing, he felt the slight, he watched Rhaegar with cold accusing eyes.  _A protective uncle, he fears I have mocked Elia. I have._  "The men are ready."  
"I doubt any man is ever truly ready for war Prince Lewyn."  
"Mayhaps you're right but they await your orders. As do I."  
"Ser Jonothor will lead the vanguard, you will ride with him then report back to me on the amount of men and how well armed they are. You will have the Dornish command, Ser Barristan will take the rear, and I suspect the Storm Lord has the Tully forces this side of the Trident, there is not enough blue amongst that Baratheon yellow."  
"He will take us from the rear?"  
"He will try, we have more men but they are more seasoned. Your sister, gracious as she is has sent no warriors, not even Oberyn, I could have done with his spear at my side." He mused. Elia's brother was an excellent fighter quick and deadly but then again war was no place for stealth, on the field it was strength that gave you sight of the next sunrise.  _And he is stronger than you_. The last time he had seen Robert he had won the melee at Harrenhal, he was bloody and muscular, a bellowing giant.  
"My brothers will not be returning?" He asked, his dark brow furrowed.  
"They have orders in the South."  
"The south... " He said darkly. "You would send your finest warriors away to protect  _the south_." His lip curled around the words.  
"You may be well loved in my heart Prince Lewyn but guard your tongue. I am still your prince and I will spill every drop of my blood and yours to defend what is mine."  
"A king may wear a crown but only a fool would begin a war for a woman."  
"You speak too boldly." He placed his hand on his sword, drawing it slightly out of the scabbard. "You will be in the vanguard and then beside me. You will hold your tongue or I shall cut it."  
"Yes, your grace." He bowed curtly then departed with a flourish. He placed the sword back in its sheath. He looked about, he was alone. Myles was no longer standing in the shadows, he had died at the Battle of the Bells, he rode beside Jon and fought valiantly it was told. Too young to die, did he ever know love? Did he ever see a winter? Or was he now a knight of perpetual summer, where the winds were sweet and the snows never fell. He had betrayed him too he supposed. More so Jon Connington. Dear Jon, what good would it do to name his son after him if he should never know? Arthur had said the last that was seen of him was as he passed through the gates of King's Landing, ragged and poor as a beggar.  _He will be fine, he is not foolish._   _When this is done and all is well I shall right those wrongs done to him_. It had seemed the list of wrongs he needed to right had grown long of late. He thought of Ser Jaime alone with his sick, mad father. How much blood has been shed for his actions? Or we're they his own? What would life had been if he had let Lyanna marry her Storm Lord? He could not bear to think it; it still sent a cold fury through him as it had done all those moons ago as he sat in Harrenhal watching him stroke her hand. The world was a different place to the one he had left, as if he had gone into the forest on the edge of the Prince's Pass and when he left the safety of the trees behind he had emerged in a different time, where no king was safe on his throne, no vow holy, and no god forgiving. He stood on the precipice of a war, the final furious struggle.

The water lapped the shore and Raider whinnied apprehensively.  _He is frightened_. With good reason, across the rushing trident thirty-five thousand knights, horsed and in armour that gleamed stretched for miles, banners whipped by the wind blew from every place, the rearing stag, a snarling direwolf, a diving eagle, a leaping trout. Beside him his own three headed dragon flew in the wind, his black cloak with it. He thought of how much blood would be spilt on the ground this day, of the sins he had committed, the crimes against his blood and kin, he wondered if they could be forgiven. Every man around him was condemned in the eyes of the gods, whichever god that was, they had forsaken a vow and they had all disappointed someone they loved. A man's ability to love was their only recompense for their all consuming desire for power, the greed that would burn the world to ash just to make it his own. He considered whether if the crown rested on his head instead of his fathers and his rebellious cousin has risen his banners against him, would he have made the same mistakes? Was his father's cruelty inevitable or was he truly mad? He need not burn men alive, nor imprison green boys in armour, Rhaegar supposed had his father been better loved he may have been forgiven but the North remembers and the death of their liege lord would not be a memory that would fade.  _My father did not love me_ , he thought.  _I was only an inconvenient necessity in his life, my blood was all he wanted._ Forty thousand men stood behind him, the river rushing before him. He felt a King, he was a King. A horn sounded across the Trident and another of his men returned it, he turned in his saddle to the three white knights awaiting his word.  
"On this day, on this ground, we will be victorious. In fire and blood."  
"Fire and blood." Ser Barristan nodded in agreement.  
"Go to your posts, we will rally when the battle is done." Ser Barristan galloped to the rear and Ser Lewyn rode to assemble the Dornish knights. Ser Jonothor stayed beside him, ready to lead the vanguard. He knew he must speak to the men, how could he ask them to die for a mad King or a prince who was a stranger to them? These men who had lost friends, brothers in arms, laid down their lives for a King who had given them nothing.  _I will be better, I will lead them from this day until my last._ He begun to gallop along the line, Raider snorting heavily, feeling the tension in the morning air. __  
"Men! Honourable men of Westeros, who give their lives and swords for their King! For the true King! I know I cannot bring life back to the dead and there are some wounds that shall never heal. I cannot restore the allies we have lost, nor the bonds that have been made in blood but I can lead an army into battle, I can hold my sword higher than any and cut down the foes who wish to take the freedom that is your own. Let us cut down the Storm Lord who dare raise his hammer to a dragon, let us see what he is made of," A great bellowing cheer went up, the stamping of hooves and the clanging of steel was joined by a horn that sounded again. "A rebel lord has no place on the throne, a rebel lord has no right to the throne. Ride now, for the Reach, for Dorne, for the King and for Westeros!" The horns sounded a final time from both sides of the crashing river as Rhaegar charged beside Jonothor who let out a feral yell. Amongst the sea of thundering hooves he fell back to take charge of the men he would lead, a second attack after the vanguard. The Dornish men waited with their spears, their bronze scales glittering in the light each man had a rage in his eyes, a tunnelled vision of war and war alone. A beast was awoken in each of them, a beast that woke when they smelt blood in the air and heard the battle cry. Prince Lewyn galloped towards him and skidded to a halt.  
"They have met and they are brutal. All seasoned men, all knights on horseback."  
"Then I will take the command." He turned from Lewyn's narrowed glare, his black eyes full of hatred.  _This is no time for us to battle sly prince._  "Martells, Allyrions, Daynes, Yronwoods, Fowlers, Blackmonts, Vaith, Uller and Jordaynes," each house responded to their call with a shout which was barely audible over the great sound that erupted from beyond the banks of the Trident. "Your Princess had given me your spears, now we shall make them bloody, now we will show these rebel men a sandstorm." This time when they charged forward Rhaegar drew his dragon sword, raised it high in the air, his black shield on his arm and it floated amongst the bronze spears. As the horses slowed with water under their hooves he saw the water was murky with blood. Bodies floated listlessly in the current, cloaks of every shade. The corpses were trampled into the riverbed as they thundered through the waves and they clashed with the rebel forces, a force that sent a ripple through the river and out in to the land, a crash so powerful it must be felt in the Red Keep, his father would feel it deep in the holdfast and he would know that his son would take everything from him. Men stood unhorsed, some in saddles, all saw his dragon helm, and he saw the rubies on his chest reflected in their eyes. They bared yellowing teeth, they were no longer men, they were animals and they were wild. He cut them down, he felt blood spatter warm and fresh, so fresh it sent steam rising into the cold dawn as they lay face down in the water. He did not feel a man any longer either, he was a god and with his sword he controlled them all, their lives his to take. In the fast moving current, his horse snorting, eyes wild sat a huge, hulking of his armour was silver and undented. The man who had killed Myles, who had put his lips on Lyanna, who thought himself a king. His war hammer was bloody in his hand and the water about him was scarlet. He thundered towards Rhaegar, his hammer ready, spraying flecks of gore as he charged _. He will use the momentum to kill me; a hammer is no weapon for a knight ahorse._  This was merely a joust and Rhaegar was the better horseman. Raider swerved from the swinging hammer, he felt it whip through the air, sending a whoosh of wind that made his violet eyes stream. Robert turned his mount about and they circled each other, his blue eyes, great stormy oceans in steel, boring into Rhaegar's own. _Such hatred he has for an imagined crime._  Women cannot be stolen, they are not horses, swords, they cannot be owned, Robert possessed her for a moment and she left him, as all free things do. Rhaegar loved her but never did he forget that if she wished to she could leave him, it was that which terrified him the most, more than this tyrant bathed in blood. The Storm Lord raised his hammer high and Rhaegar caught the handle with his sword, the ripple of his cousin's strength caused his shoulder to strain. Their weapons clanged and metal sparks flew, the fire blurring with the crimson beneath them and with each blow he blocked with his shield he felt it strain and crack.  
"She never loved you cousin." He called and the great hammer dropped slightly in his hand and his horse took a pace back in the rushing water. Robert's fury rose once more and with a barbaric yell he threw the hammer forward with all his force. The deafening clang of steel rang through his ears as his longsword caught it and it became a battle of strength, both men struggling with all their might. Every time the hammer edged closer Rhaegar held out his shield, when he glanced at it for a second he saw the red dragon was barely recognisable _. No man has ever gotten so close to a dragon._  
"Lies." He hissed it but there was desperation there too. Robert Baratheon's heavy breathing was amplified, echoing around his helm and only now could Rhaegar see his eyes, piercing blue and full of malice. The hammer swung through the air with such force Rhaegar thought the very wind would break into a thousand pieces. He pulled his reins back and Raider fell away in time.  
"Your war is for nothing traitor." Rhaegar said, his voice was iron. His arm was growing tired now; the Storm Lord was stronger than him, heavier, more muscled. The Lord put all of his hulking force behind the blows he rained down on Rhaegar. It caught him on his left shoulder and it was a wave of pain through every inch of him. He felt the skin burst, the blood begin to trickle from it. It radiated from his shoulder to his chest, he felt the bone splinter and shatter. He saw nothing for a moment and he felt the earth move beneath him. When the world reappeared he was staggering in the water, the waves lapping at his thighs. Rhaegar felt blood meandering down his arm, bubbling through his gorget from the wound. As he staggered to his feet the world before him began to darken again but he clung to it desperately, clawing his way back into consciousness as his arm flopped uselessly by his side, with each movement he felt the scraping of bone on bone. He rose again, blinded by the agony deep in his bones, all he knew was that his sword was still clutched in his hand. Baratheon was unhorsed too, standing in the water, Rhaegar in his shadow. He readied his sword.  _Dragons do not drown._  He saw a flash of skin at his cousin's shoulder, his steel plate had been moved, his sword would find purchase there and it did. As he swung for him Rhaegar lent sideways, and with the swiftest of cat-like movements, his sword pierced his skin, he felt it tear muscle, he saw it glint in the sunlight as it broke the skin the other side of his back. He caught Baratheon's eye as he dug it deeper, with that blue stare on him he twisted his sword with all his force, and he heard his cousin roar. Rhaegar would cut the arm the had ever dared to dream of holding Lyanna. He staggered back as Rhaegar's sword was pulled from him, bloody and beautiful. He smelt the rebel's blood on his hands, it awakened a beast in him, a beast he'd seen in his father's eyes when he stared into the fire, when his mother emerged battered and beaten from her chamber, when he imagined the great fires of Summerhall, it was a dragon. A dragon that raised its tremendous head, spiked and scaled to the red sky, spread its wings, casting darkness over everything and lit a fire like none had ever seen. Robert's hammer did not find him again, it was as if the air around him caused the steel to pass by and he danced around the lord as if he were nothing. His longsword pierced Baratheon's knee, Rhaegar's sword buried so deep it's point touched the muddy river bed beneath his feet. His arm sloshed in the blood that began to fill the arm of his armour and he knew it trickled from the joints in the steel, his head swam with the scent of blood. Robert's hammer caught his large helm and he heard another fearsome crack, he prayed it was the steel and not bone but his vision swayed again, as if he were a drunkard on a stormy ship. He stumbled forward and another blow caught his already mangled arm. His sword with its ruby dragon hilt flew through the air and disappeared beneath the current and he fell, so that his face was inches from the rushing water, he felt it beneath his right hand as it forced himself to kneel with all his might. Robert Baratheon, with a look of sickening triumph watched as he pulled the helm from his head and threw it in into the river. His narrow vision of the battle that had only included Robert now expanded and all around the water was scarlet and bodies floated endlessly. There were screams, furious shrieks, swords clanged and he stood over him, his lip curled. Rhaegar grappled for his sword but all he found were slick rocks and slime.  _This is not how I die, not today._  Robert raised the great hammer and it fell through the air for what seemed an eternity. Rhaegar heard a terrible crack, a shattering, he saw sparks of steel and he tasted bile and blood in his throat. His eyes were clouded and he saw the Storm Lord holding his hammer high, victorious.  _Victory will not make you King, cousin, nor will it win a woman's love._  The water before him began to run red; the river had turned to ruby. Being carried by the undercurrent he saw giant gleaming rubies being dragged along the bottom of the river, his rubies. He felt warm blood pour from his mouth, he coughed it up, and he felt his nose stream with it as he gagged. The sky grew dark now but it was far from night, he struggled to keep his eyes open, he must carry on. He was a King.  _No, only a prince, I will forever be only a prince._  He saw the faces of his children, the ones he loved and the ones he would never know, of the woman he had married and broken.  _If I die they die with me, he will kill them all, let me live, let me stand._  The light had almost gone now, the sun must be setting, and he let out one more shallow breath as the abyss of the river rushed forward to greet him. He thought of Lyanna alone in her tower, waiting forever as he would float out into the great ocean. " _Lyanna_."


	25. The Knight in Chains

The Knight in Chains

Darkness. Darkness and the whispering wind was all he knew.  
He had felt every inch of his iron cage for some tiny gap his captors knew nothing of. No sunlight reached him under this thick covering, nor did fresh air, he supposed it wasn't merely the closed space that caused him to feel the walls were creeping nearer. His hands were tied behind him and his wrists chaffed terribly, he could feel the sores, the blood was moist on his palms. He felt his bruises from battle though he barely remembered it now.  _A blow to the head_ , he thought. He remembered the rushing water, he remembered it was red. He had stood, barbaric, furious and fighting, six men faced him and six men were forced back by his might.  _Be bold_ , he had told himself,  _be bold for your King and your vow._  He had felt a sudden wraith behind him, and then all was black. Seven men is what it had taken to bring him to his knees, any other man would be pleased, even proud. But white knights do not fall to their knees; Barristan the Bold did not bend the knee to a rebel lord nor a crowned stag. He remembered a white cloak spattered with gore float along the rippling current but he did not know which brother had fallen. He remembered Rhaegar, fighting valiantly, beautifully; Barristan had thought it a dance, with the swiftness of the dragon prince's sword and his foot even as the waves lapped at his thighs. He watched him throw his dragon helm aside and he had watched his heart pour out into the river. The cart swayed and he heard a horse snort and stamp. They had been on the move since he had woken; he heard voices every so often but never for long and the words were short and curt.  _It is either the men that are wary of me or Baratheon_. The cart jolted then stopped and a shuffling of feet surrounded him.  _If they mean to kill me they are cravens, a honourable man would put a sword in my hand and earn my death_. He would cut them down, each one would fall before him and he would return to the place he should have never left. His King waited for him, Ser Jaime was alone and he could not defeat an army. The fabric shifted as if disturbed and was pulled down with a flourish. Even the moonlight dazzled him and he shielded his eyes from it, so long he had spent in the dark that the stars had become torches and the moon a great beacon. Men stood all around and before him stood two men, taller, more muscular and finer dressed. Lord Robert Baratheon, a huge beast, more bear than stag with such a rage in his eyes it would make lesser men cower but Barristan was no man, he was a knight of the Kingsguard with honour, with pride. He did not tremble in his prison.  _If he is to kill me let it be known it took seven men to bring me to him, it took bonds to make me weak, it took an army to give him the courage to raise that hammer to me._  Beside him, a long thin man, much like Prince Rhaegar in build but Lord Eddard had none of his fairness. A jaw of iron and a thick brow, this Andal warrior was much like the First Men, who formed the great kingdoms of the North, raised the Wall in ice yet burnt in fire when Aegon came on his black dread.  _This north man does not tremble either, not now._  
"You fought valiantly Ser Barristan." Lord Stark called to him as Barristan shuffled forward in his cage, so they could see him.  
"Not valiantly enough." He replied, pulling at the restraints on his wrists and ankle.  
"A precaution Selmy. You are too dangerous a man to be left unchained." Said Lord Robert limping forward and wincing with every step. He gleamed a sickly white and his eyes had the glazed appearance that milk of the poppy gave a man. _Let his wounds fester, let him die_. He thought of the water trying to drag his prince's lifeless body along the river, he thought of how his heart had fallen.  
"I cannot fight an army."  
"But you would try." Lord Eddard was right in that, he would try and die.  _Vows are made to test a man, to break him and build him again._ Arthur had told him that once, when he had caught his eye wandering too often on Ashara, though he said it with no anger, merely amusement.  _What would I give to see her again, her ebony hair in the wind and those dancing eyes._  He was glad she was safe, away from war. Starfall would keep her safe _. I will never have her, I will only love her_ , he thought sadly.  
"Your Prince was slain on the Trident, your brothers too Ser Barristan."  
"I saw." He said. "I saw traitors slay better men, I saw a river turn to blood."  
"We are no traitors, your King murdered innocent men. Lord Rickard, Ser Brandon- may the gods protect them. Your prince stole my betrothed as if she were his to do with as he pleased. When I think of what he has done to her. I would put my hammer in his chest a thousand times more. I would hang his body from the gates of the Red Keep so that his father could watch as the dragon prince with his sweet songs and fair face became nothing but a feast for crows." Barristan saw the hole in Rhaegar's chest, saw the shock in his eyes as the blood trickled from his nose and lips. Even as he fell into the water he had been fair and brave. Baratheon may have been victorious in this battle but Rhaegar would be remembered long after the fire this rebel lord had lit was quenched. He wondered if the Storm Lord still believed Rhaegar had taken Lady Lyanna against her will. Barristan did not believe that tale anymore.  _A North woman cannot be chained, if she wanted to escape she would have._  She went with him, he knew it. Maybe that is what made Lord Baratheon so furious, that given the choice the woman he loved chose another man, a better man. "Prince Rhaegar was a great man, a greater man than you will ever be Robert Baratheon. He was born to be a King and you will live forever in his shadow."  
"Corpses don't cast shadows Selmy. Are you truly fool enough to die for a dead man?"  
"There are some who would die to uphold their vows, there are some who still remember taking them." He gave the Storm Lord a steely glare.  
"Careful now Selmy, you are still in chains. You may be a great knight but you are not  _that_  great."  
"If you wanted to kill me Baratheon you would have done it on the Trident, you would do it now. Or do you think you can convince me to join your cause?"  
"Our cause will be the only cause Ser Barristan, when Aerys is dead."  
"Four of my brothers still live, the Tyrell's hold your fortress and the walls of King's Landing stand between you and King Aerys. Yours is the lost cause."  _Though that is partly a lie_ , he thought. He did not know where three of his brothers were, he prayed that they are returned to the Red Keep but he had a feeling Rhaegar's dearest friend was not sent to guard his father, a man who had shown him little love and received little in return. Rhaegar will have sent them to guard a more precious jewel.  _A Northern jewel_. Robert Baratheon only smiled knowingly.  
"We will see Ser Barristan. There will come a time when you must choose. There will be a new King and new age. You must decide whether you will join us or burn with a dying dynasty." He turned away and left, leaning on a wooden crutch as he limped away the men going with him. Lord Stark still remained, his ghostly skin bathed in the silver light, his fur cloak identical to the one his father had worn when Aerys had bound him up and burned him alive.  
"I did not wish to start a war Ser Barristan. I did not wish a new King, nor a new age." Like many men who never ask for power they have it thrust upon them and rise higher than they ever could have dreamed. Lord Eddard must have always believed his brother would be Lord of Winterfell, that he would be his castellan, his commander, his confidante but never his equal. It must have been odd to stand in his brother's place, with his father's titles and Ser Brandon's wife. "In vengeance I have killed men, I have watched my kinsmen, my friends and foes fall on the battlefield but it has not brought my sister back to me. I have lost my father and brother to King Aerys but I _know_  Lyanna is alive. Prince Rhaegar returned to the keep before war, was there no whisper of where he'd been?" Barristan knew then that however calm he appeared, beneath his icy face he was paddling furiously. He was trapped under the ice, banging on its smooth surface, drowning. He was a boy, a boy who had seen too much blood, too much war. He was trying desperately to put back the pieces of his broken family, though some were lost forever.  
"He left no word of where she is my lord. There were no whispers, not even the eunuch knows." Lord Eddard's facade dropped slightly and his eyes glazed over. She could be anywhere, he must think. Across the Narrow Sea, across the Summer Sea, in the Free Cities, she could be worlds away and he would never find her. He pitied this young lord, a foolish notion as he was still a prisoner and Lord Stark his captor. "He rode through the King's Gate is all I know my lord. South would be a good place to start your search when the war is done."  _If he does not die in battle and Aerys is victorious then he will not live to find her._  A good cause but a traitor still, he would burn like his father no doubt, for his role in Robert's rebellion. It seemed Lord Baratheon had once fought for the same cause but his greed, with the throne within his grasp he had forgotten his friend, he had forgotten his love.  
"Thank you Ser Barristan, I will." Lord Eddard nodded and begun to turn when Ser Barristan called out.  
"Where are we marching?" he asked, though the sinking feeling in his heart told him he knew where the army marched on.  
"To the end of the road." Replied Lord Stark.


	26. The Kingslayer

Within the high walls of the keep there was a deathly silence, a suspense in sound.  
The rebel forces had been seen, led by the new Lord of Winterfell in place of the injured Storm Lord, riding from the Trident to King's Landing. Panic had ensued and the commonfolk that could flee, did. When King Aerys barred the gates to the city there was outcry and a riot took hold of the people, ten and seven people were crushed in the crowd surging toward the blocked gates and the tension within the city was as palpable as the silence. Since Prince Rhaegar's death on the Trident the King had sat alone in his throne room, jumping at every creak the wind caused and staring suspiciously into empty shadows. Jaime thought this was mourning; his son would have scoffed at the thought. When Jaime had brought him the news of the defeat on the Trident and Robert Baratheon's slaying of the Prince, Aerys had stared blankly at him with a glazed expression and muttered a dismissal under his breath, when he left he had pressed his ear against the door he stood outside but [no sound](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8288324/26/A-Realm-in-Rebellion) was stirred from within. The King had insisted Prince Lewyn must have betrayed Rhaegar on the Trident and so when he sent away Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys with Ser Willem Darry to Dragonstone, he kept Princess Elia and her children behind, Dorne's loyalty sealed with their lives. Jaime himself had read the letter horrified to learn that Prince Rhaegar and two of his white brothers had been slain by the rebels, he had said a silent prayer for them in Baelor's Sept; he had closed his eyes as he knelt before the Stranger.  _Guide them Stranger, let them be guided through the dark into the light. Into a world where the honourable man sits on the throne in place of the mad one. Let the Prince be the flame in the dark he was born to be and let my brothers finally be free._ When he had finally opened his eyes night had fallen and he watched the two white candles and black one burn in the dimly lit sept.  
"He was a great Prince, ser. I am glad that some do mourn him." Grand Maester Pycelle stood in front of the Father, his own candles burning. His long white beard appeared yellow in the candlelight and his russet robes black in the night.  
"Many do mourn him Grand Maester, he was beloved by all." Jaime stood slowly, his armour clinking softly as he rose.  
"Not all, not all." His voice had the [stammer](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8288324/26/A-Realm-in-Rebellion) of old age that gave the very sound a withered quality, it echoed around the empty sept. Jaime thought of the rebels now riding with haste towards them, even in the depth of the night with leagues between them he could almost hear the hooves hammering the earth, the mens breathing heavy, smelling of blood and sweat. Of Robert Baratheon cleaning Rhaegar's blood from his heavy hammer and smiling to himself. He was glad Cersei was far away, safe at the Rock. This would be a bloody battle.  _Or bloody surrender._  
"He would have been a great King. The greatest." Said Jaime into the gloom.  
"That he would of ser. But it does not do to dwell on things that cannot be." Jaime stared at the Strangers spectre like statue and left. As he walked into the night he decided he could not go back to the White tower, with his brothers either dead or missing at war he disliked the eerie quiet of the place. He would return to the keep and to the King he would protect until his death. His white horse whinnied as he approached, untying it from the post he tethered it to, there was no worry of thievery this late no-one would visit the sept, bar the holy men and women. He mounted and the sound of hooves on the cobbled stone clattered loudly as he made his way back. As he crossed into the keep he dismounted his horse, leaving it for some boy, a squire or whomever to do with it as he wished. He made for the Great Hall where the King had been choosing to spend a great deal of his time perched precariously on the spiked throne, clinging to every second he still sat upon it. He opened the heavy oak doors and Lord Varys stood before the Throne, quietly conversing with King Aerys. Jaime strode along the narrow carpet running from door to throne to stand beside the eunuch before his King. He bent to one knee and bowed his head.  
"Your Grace."  
"Ser Jaime, I was about to enquire your whereabouts." King Aerys voice was shrill and high, as if it had been spread too thinly through the air.  
"Pardon your grace, I rode to Baelor's Sept to say my prayers for Prince Rhaegar and my lost brothers."  
"Your prayers are beyond them now Ser Jaime." Jaime gritted his teeth, to speak of his own son such a manner,  of the men who pledged their lives to protect him, who went to war on his command and died so he might have freedom.  
"Yes your Grace." He said quietly.  
"Lord Varys has brought some news, have you not my lord?"  
"Yes your grace." He turned to Jaime and he saw the pale light of the moon gleam off the eunuch's head, his beady eyes watery as he moistened his lips. "It seems Lord Tywin has finally called his banners and rides for King's Landing." He felt the King's gaze on his face, watching his response. His father had stayed well away from this war, he knew he would sweep in and aid whoever seemed victorious. He had ,however noticed that Lord Varys had not mentioned that his father was coming to their aid.  
"Is this not good tiding your grace?" Jaime asked staring up at his King. Aerys had grown much thinner since his son had run away with the Stark girl all those moons ago, he was a skeletal shade of himself and on the throne in the dark, with that icy expression on his lined face he seemed more terrible statue than man.  
"When will Lord Tywin arrive my lord?" Said the King, leaving Jaime's question unanswered.  
"Before the rebels your grace, a rider from Harrenhal said they had already been seen south-east of Stony Sept, they will be with us soon enough."  
"That will be all Lord Varys." The King said suddenly, Varys gave Jaime a sideways glance before bowing to the King and hurrying from the hall on his padded slippers. When the door closed behind the eunuch Aerys sat silently, his hands in his lap, his head twitching slightly at odd intervals. He muttered to himself, words that either Jaime could not hear or did not know. He looked about the dark corners of the hall with shifting eyes and the onyx pupil nearly swallowed the pale iris, the whites of his eyes bloodshot and more pale yellow than white. The door swung open again and Jaime turned to see Lord Rossart, the new Hand of the King walking quickly towards them. His dark grey hair hung limply into his vulture like face and the only shining thing about him was the chain of golden hand's, a new addition to his brown robes. A member of the Alchemist Guild, there were more worthy lords than this but Aerys obsession with the enchanted fire these men brewed meant that he kept them close. Lord Rossart had only been Hand for a little over a fortnight after the King had Lord Qarlton burned like he did the Lord of Winterfell. The hook nosed man stood beside Jaime and bowed to his King.  
"Your grace." His weedy voice made Jaime uneasy but the Lord's eyes flickered over Jaime's armour lingering on his sword sheathed at his hip. Jaime saw that a film of sweat had already become present across his brow under the wrathful glare of the King.  
"Leave us Ser Jaime." Jaime nodded and turned, striding from the hall to stand guard at the door. The door moaned on its hinges and shut behind him. He thought of all the nights he had waited outside a closed door whilst his King sat within fuelling his own madness. The night he had burnt Lord Qarlton his Queen had been brought from the Maidenvault to the King's chamber, Aerys had raped her again and again, Jaime remembered Rhaella's screams well.  
" _Are we not sworn to protect her too?"_  He had asked Ser Jonothor as they stood guard outside the royal bedchamber long ago it seemed.  
" _We are."_  He'd said. " _But not from him_." The Queen emerged bruised and battered the next morning, teary eyed but with her silver head held high. During the death of the previous Hand, the King had screamed with mirth and the green flames reflected wildly in his eyes as the room filled with the smell of burning flesh. He was hard, it could be seen through his breeches, just like he was when he watched Lord Rickard burn. He knew what the Hand and the King were to discuss, he had listened and watched. Under the city, in deep hidden canals the Alchemist Guild had placed their wildfire, so that if the Targaryen's fell there would be no throne for another to sit. No city for him to rule from, only ash, dust and bones. They plotted together now, even at this final hour, Lord Rossart doing the bidding of a madman. Jaime decided that he must sleep. He had hardly slept at all since Rhaegar had died and when he did he dreamt of the rushing Trident red with blood and the hand he had rested on Jaime's shoulder before he departed. _It does not do to speak of roads not taken._ The White Tower was as solemn as Jaime had expected, the creeping dawn only adding to the eerie disquiet, the absence of his brothers more prominent in the day. He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling wondering where his brothers were, which were alive. Ser Arthur, Lord Gerold and Ser Oswell had not been seen on the Trident and no word had reached him of their whereabouts. Ser Barristan is said to have been captured on the Trident. Prince Lewyn, with his strong Dornish tones and golden skin and Ser Jonothor had fallen with their Prince. They all lay in a watery grave now. Two dead, one as good as and three missing, Jaime had never felt so alone. Cersei had long been gone or he would have lain with her now, breast in hand, telling her of his inevitable doom. How could he protect a man an entire army was set on slaying? Even if his missing brothers returned they could not hold off Robert Baratheon's forces alone. His eyes felt heavy and the lids fluttered closed as he fell into restless sleep that was filled with dreams of rushing water, galloping hooves and the shadows of his white brothers floating along a river of rubies.

The council table was littered with papers and the sun had finally set, staining the sky bloody.  
"Lord Tywin stands before your gates my King, he will be at our city by the wolfing hour." Lord Varys in his lavender robes had never looked more troubled, his once placid complexion, his mask of tepid calm seemed to have evaporated slightly in this dire hour. He knew that should the Lannister force bend the knee to the rebels, the Targaryen King would fall. Their allies were scattered, only meals for ravens across the Riverlands. The Trident was said to be clogged with the dead, bloated and rushing towards the sea.  _Food for krakens_ , he thought darkly.  
"Please your grace, Lord Tywin is a dear and loyal friend. A great friend, true." said Grand Maester Pycelle. Jaime nearly laughed, his father hatred for King Aerys had been known by all and returned by his King.  
"If he was so loyal then tell me Grand Maester why my lion has lain so dormant in his rock? Why would he not claim for me and crush this Storm Lord with a golden fist? A traitor, a traitor..." King Aerys gave a shiver though there was no cold, he stared intently at the fireplace a moment then back at the Grand Maester who quivered, his long white beard shaking with him.  
"A just point my King. But he served you loyally for ten and ten years, he would not abandon his true liege when he called for dire aide?"  
"Dire aide was after the Battle of the Bells maester, this is no longer aide. This is saviour." Said Lord Varys, nodding wisely.  
"I do not need saviour! I am the King! I am the true King. I am blood of the dragon, the Iron Throne is  _mine_." Said King Aerys shrilly, banging his knarled fist on the table. Jaime pressed his heels closer to the door he stood in front of, his head bent but it was impossible not to hear and he felt his eyes flicker upwards in curiosity though he knew they should not.  
"Even so your grace Lord Tywin could bring you the victory you need, he has twelve thousand men, enough to pose a threat to the Usurper and when our army is regathered we will once more be a mighty force."  
"Opening our gates to Tywin Lannister would be allowing a lion amongst lambs, he will slaughter us one by one." Lord Varys spoke. "I fear you may have slighted him too harshly your grace." His eyes stared pointedly at Jaime and the others turned to stare at him too. "A Lannister always pays his debts."  _He is wiser than them all_ , he decided. _He has the measure of my father and of the King._ He could not stand by idly any longer, the maester and his King together would destroy this city and lose a war in one foolish act. He stepped forward from the shadows _.  
_ "Your grace I know my father better than any man and he is _not_ your ally. Do not let his army into the city, turn him away, let him march elsewhere." _  
_"What other choice do we have Ser Jaime?" said Grand Maester Pycelle. "To not let him through may turn him to the rebel forces if he has not claimed for them already. He may take it as a slight to his loyalty. My King, he will not forget that his son is ours." Jaime's jaw clenched. _Ours. Ours, I am not theirs. I am a knight, a warrior. I am my own._  
"Yes, yes." The King nodded smiling. "His son is ours. He will not dare turn traitor." He nodded still, shaking his head so the long hair quaked with each jerked. "We will open our gates, we will. He will not dare." They departed the room through the King's door, spilling out into the throne room. King Aerys climbed the steep dais and sat warily on the barbed seat.

His eyes were heavy as he stood in the sleepy gloom cast by the shadow of the Iron Throne.  _Why had he exchanged his life with Cersei for this dreary existence?_  When he waited in some dark hall for the King to mutter himself into a slumber he often thought of her, of their nights alone in the golden Rock. He would think of how her hair gleamed in the sunlight, brighter than his armour ever could. He thought now of her smooth pale skin, dressed in nothing but the candles burning in her chamber, how he would run his hands over it and she would quiver, of how she would whimper when he kissed between her thighs and he would smile into her.  _Lions do not moan_ , he would think, _I live to_   _hear her roar_. He almost forgot where he has, he felt his cock begin to stiffen and he took a deep breath to calm himself.  _One look at the King should do it_. He sat in the throne, eyes fluttering, a white film around the corner of his mouth and his skin dry, crumpled and cracked.  _How the mighty dragons have fallen, when this is all that remains_. The doors to the hall opened and Lord Commander Manderly strode in breathlessly with the eunuch, the Grand Maester and the hand almost tripping over his billowing golden cloak as they rushed behind him. The King's pale eyes snapped open as if he had not slept at all.  
"A lion is at the gates your grace. Lord Tywin and his force wish to bend their knee to the true king." Announced the Lord Commander of the City's Watch. Aerys watched him with a twitching eyes, his head shook every so often and his tongue darted out to moisten barren lips.  
"Lord Tywin..." he said slowly, the words tumbling over his tongue as if they were wine, fine and crisp, words to be savoured.  _He has waited a long while to hear those words._ Jaime thought it must have pained his father dearly to bend his knee and call the Mad King true, to line his army up at the gates ready to send them to be slaughtered like the dragon prince.  _Perhaps old loyalty does not die, or my knighthood was a slight he could recover from._  He so often had stared at his father and wondered what he thought, his cold hard eyes gave nothing, no warmth could be found there. Cersei tried too hard to emulate that stare, but it was in vain, sometimes her emotions played across her face as if it were the pages of a book.  _The curse of a woman._  
"He has come for us your grace, I knew he would. You can trust the Lannisters, they have always been true friends to the crown." Stuttered Grand Maester Pycelle. _Odd to be an ally to a crown, a crown may sit on any head._  The city beyond the walls were not so silent anymore, the rumbling of voices, thousands upon thousands of voices tumbled in through every crevice in the rock, carried by the high wind. The King stared at them all for a moment, though he seemed so distant as if his mind were leagues away.  
"Your grace, please. Do not let the Lannister army into the city." Begged Jaime but his King ignored him, as he always did.  
"Open the gates." He said. A look of relief spread across Lord Manderly's face, mayhaps like Jaime he had thought without his father they would be lost. He tried to conceal his smile as he bowed to the King.  
"As you command your grace." He hurried from the hall and as turned the corner he broke into a sprint. Lord Varys caught Jaime's eye with his own dark ones, he thought he looked scared, or was it nerves? His was a Master of Whispers and what good were whispers in war?  _Words are no weapon to match steel._  
"Leave. Bring me the lion lord, I wish to see him bend his knee myself."  
"Very well your grace." The three lords bent their heads and left swiftly and once again Jaime was alone with the King. He felt his own nerves bubbling up inside of him, what he would have given for one of Ser Arthur's reassuring stares or Prince Rhaegar's hand on his shoulder.  _But they are dead, murdered._  There was a roar of sound from the city, a great bellow and screaming. Jaime stepped forward towards the door, wide-eyed.  
"Stay." Muttered King Aerys and he held out a withered talon. The screams below only increased and through the highest window Jaime could see black smoke rising into the darkening sky.  _What is happening? Where is my father?_  The door to the throne room opened with a bang and Lord Rossart hurried in a look of terror on his face as he stumbled over his robes.  
"The Lannister forces are sacking the city your grace! In the name of Lord Robert, in the name of their new King."  
"What?" He spat his curling nails clutching at the tattered robe he wore. "Traitor! Traitors at every turn, no man is worthy of trust, every man a traitor. Where are the Tyrells? Where are the Dornish? Where are the Lannisters? Traitors!" His voice was shrill and it echoed around the hall. Screams could be heard beyond the windows. "Let him be king over charred bones and cooked meat. Let him be the King of ashes."  
"Your grace I-."  
"It is time, it is time. Traitors will burn, soldiers will burn, and children will burn. From the fire a great dragon will rise and he will conquer death. Burn them in their homes, burn them in their beds." He screamed. "LEAVE ME. LEAVE." The ragged Hand stared up at his King, for a moment he saw the fear in Rossart's eyes, the fear of this mad man. He turned and fled the hall. "Ser Jaime," The King called, his lips twitching, his eyes manic. "Bring me the head of Lord Tywin." Jaime felt his ears fill with a distant buzz, he felt his heart throw itself against his chest.  _Bring me the head of Lord Tywin_. Jaime bowed and followed Rossart from the throne room and into the keep beyond. City watchmen were in chaos about the castle and everyman shouted to each other. From Aegon's Hill, the city screamed below and the clashing of steel could be heard from all around. It was no more a war, this was defeat. Lannister red seemed to flood every street and Jaime made for the Tower of the Hand, pushing those who stood in his way aside. He climbed the stairs two at a time and the tower was silent the only sound the turmoil of the bleeding city. He pushed the door open and Lord Rossart was gathering possessions hurriedly, running about. Jaime drew his sword silently and stood in the doorway. Lord Rossart ran past him and only when he was on his journey back across the room did he see the knight.  
"Oh! Ser Jaime, you startled me. What is it? Is it the King? Has he asked me to return?" His reedy voice quavered silently. "I thought you had been ordered to... to..." His eyes found the drawn sword and took a step away.  
"You cannot be allowed to burn this city my lord." The man's breathing became heavy now as Jaime took a step toward him."  
"I-I-I..." He stammered weakly. Jaime raised his sword and with a deft plunging caused the blade to slice through Rossart's stomach. His eyes widened in horror and he made a gargling sound deep in his chest. Jaime pulled the sword from him and he crumpled to the floor lifeless. His insides spilled across the floor and onto Jaime's boots. The bottom of his white cloak begun to turn red, blood red, Lannister red.  _Blood, it always comes back to blood_.

The sound of clashing swords and screams filled the air when he made his way out of the Tower of the Hand. The courtyards below were deathly still, the people who had run screaming seemed to have found shelter and waited silently. The drawbridge to the keep had been pulled up and he saw the distant speck of archers on the high walls _. Arrows and walls will not keep Robert Baratheon at bay, no more than it will keep my father._ The White Tower was dark, no candles had been lit but Jaime knew what he searched for. He climbed the stairs softly and threw open the door to the chamber, his bed was made, some servant had done him that service but he would not sleep there again. _Cersei will warm my bed from now on._  He bent and pulled a leather chest from under the bed, embossed on it was a crimson lion and inside, his golden armour. He threw aside his white scales laboriously and they thudded to the ground. His breast plate landed on Ser Arthur's bed when he threw it. What would he think now? The most honourable of knights, the Sword of the Morning. There would be no morning on this night, no dawn and no sunrise. Only war and death. The gods had no mercy, they spared no child you prayed for, no woman you loved, the Seven took everything and gave nothing. He stood in his golden armour, it still gleamed, gleamed like the only star in a barren sky, his golden sword in hand still dripped with Rossart's insides. He entered back into the ghostly courtyards below only the sound of shouts beyond the gates could be heard.  _They will come_ , he thought,  _they come for the Mad King_. He heard a loud creaking, the turning of metal wheels, cogs and chains, he head whipped round to see, his golden hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.  _The bridge, its being lowered. They're here_. He strode through the castle, his sword tight in his grip, his golden armour on his back, he was home. He felt it in the air, the smell of blood and of fear, many men would lose their lives tonight, new men would be born and old ones slain. He made his way through the dark hallways to the room where the small council held their meetings, he had been in there before and saw that the door remained unused, most high lords preferring to use the King's door which led back to the throne room. The door he found, lonely, abandoned in a long dead ended hall. It was locked. He kicked it open with such force the door flew off its rusty hinges and landed with a piercing smack on the floor. The council room was abandoned too, papers were scattered across the floor and others blew in a breeze the open window brought from the night. The yells and songs of steel were louder now, below the towers, within the gates. He heard the echoing of voices in hallways, voices in courtyard and towers but beyond the window the sea was still and the waves crashed on. TThe voices called, searching, searching. He looked out and saw what seemed a thousand crimson cloaks.  _The Loyalists are scattered and the rebel is upon us, he has won. Where are the Tyrell's now? The Dornish?_ Aerys was right in that, all traitors, cravens or dead. An easy choice for a war battered soldier _. Better a traitor than a feast for crows._  The King's door stood to his side and he knew beyond the King waited. He must know he will die, his guard may have been noble and the greatest knights the realm had ever seen but seven men could no surer defeat an army than a whore could be a queen. He placed his hand on the door knob, turning the golden metal slowly, feeling every cool edge of it. The throne room was empty and still, the very air seemed to have thickened and was unmoving. The robed figure paced backwards and forwards in front of his fearsome throne, muttering quickly. Aerys stared at him wildly, he had picked all the scabs on his hands, they bled, oozing. He did not notice Jaime wore gold in place of white, though his cloak still remained. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, the ornate carving imprinting them on his skin. The king looked down at the sword in his hand, his eyes widening still, scratching at his hand.  
"Is that your Fathers blood I spy? I want him dead, the traitor. I want his head, you'll bring me his head, or you'll burn with the rest. All the traitors. Rossart says their  _inside the walls_ ," He looked about suddenly as if someone had called his name, but only the dark shadows of dragons were their company. He laughed suddenly and manically, "He's gone to make them a warm welcome. Whose blood? Whose?"  _My father or my king._  He knew the decision, he knew it long ago. He stepped forward into the dying light, his shadow danced across the skeletons.  
"Rossart's." King Aerys let his mouth hang open aghast. Jaime raised his sword. There was a strong smell of human waste, his robes becoming wet around the waist. He turned and fled toward the throne but he was old, he was weak. He had begun to climb the dais when Jaime was on him and grabbed his long silver hair, yanking him backwards. He yelped helplessly. The Mad King jerked backwards and hung limply, Jaime holding him by the hair. He placed his golden gleaming sword in his back and the skin parting like ice melted by fire, the blood came gushing over him, wet and hot. The Mad King gave a spluttering, choking wheeze and fell forward on his face, sprawled across the steps.  
"And yours." He said into the solemn silence.  
"Burn them all," he whispered softly. "Burn them all."  Jaime pulled his head back and slit his throat. He did not make a sound, he would never make another sound. The heavy oak door swung open and a cluster of crimson cloaks spilled in, swords raised, yelling. Yet the sight they find is not one they expected, he mused. Lord Roland Crakewell and Ser Elys Westerling led the knights and all shouts soon faded when they spied the bloody corpse on the steps.  
"Ser Jaime?" Called Ser Elys, incredulously. His face was dumbstruck and foolish. The quiet of the empty castle began to ripple through the men in the doorway, who stared at him with a look Jaime had only seen few times before. It was the look in men when a fell beast approached, on the eve of battle, when a sword was swung by a better man.  _It is fear_. Lord Crakewell stepped forward.  
"The castle is ours Ser, and the city." He said unsurely.  
"Tell them the Mad King is dead, tell them to spare all those who yield and hold them captive." Jaime said his voice filling the hall.  
"Shall I proclaim a new king as well?" He asked tentatively, glancing sideways at Ser Elys beside him. For a moment Jaime thought of the young dragon prince Viserys, far away on that stormy island of Dragonstone.  _A dragon king and a lion hand_ , he thought. For a wild moment he saw himself with the bloodied crown that was scattered across the floor on his own head and by his side his Cersei, his golden Queen.  _She would suit that more than I would. Damn the Storm Lord rebel to the seven hells.  
_ "Claim who you bloody hell like." He turned, passing by the bleeding corpse of the Mad King, his boots leaving red footprints across the stone floor. He climbed the steps and seated himself in the Iron Throne, setting his stained sword across his knees. As he looked up he saw another figure appear in the doorway, tall and lean, his face as grey as his steely eyes, the Lord of Winterfell stood watching him coldly. He felt his judgement; felt the heavy weight of it on him, It whispered in the silence. It whispered " _Kingslayer."._


	27. Elia

Screams woke her in the night.  
The screams of men and war cries. The screams of women as they watched their husbands, sons and fathers ride to defend the city. Of children, lost and orphaned all at once. The bells began to ring from Baelor's Sept, high on its hill. _A city under siege_. She fumbled in the dark and ran for the nursery; knights sprinted past her in golden cloaks. All was chaos. She smelt the sharpness of smoke in the air and the night seemed blacker than ever, not even the stars could bare the sight of the bloody city. Her legs ached terribly and with each fearful step it was daggers in her veins _. Only I can protect them, the gods chose me of all the others._  She had wished she had Rhaegar's sword to wield in the darkness, so the rebel shadows could be slain this night.  _What twisted fate if I should kill the Storm Lord, a weak, crippled woman avenging the death of a man who tore my heart out_. She felt the cobbles slap underfoot, her ears straining for Rhaenys sweet voice. When the time came to tell her of her father's death Elia had given her a tiny black kitten so that the pain would be eased a little.  _A terrible mother I am, to bribe my child with a cat_. Was it truly terrible to want to shield your child from pain, to save them the torment, to spare them the whispers that could be heard? It felt strange to her that Rhaegar should be dead, when she had already mourned him for so long. His death was the gods' cruel joke, a melancholy man died of a broken heart. But she did it anyway, she let Rhanerys clutch that scrabbling kitten to her as she wept, she let her run into some dark hole where Elia could not follow.  _She will never forgive me for letting him go, one day, when she is crueller, she will say that I drove him into Lyanna's arms._ Not even his bones could rest now, he was a warrior, of love and of light and he lived forever in restless dark. There were screams of terror from the burning city and the smoke rose high, stretching its black hand towards the gods.  _I was a fool to linger and now King Aerys has killed us all._ She had stayed for Rhaegar, in her hopeless mind she had prayed that Lyanna Stark was nothing but a passing fancy, that he would return to their family and he would fill the void he had left. Instead he would make her his queen and lost his life for a lovers dream. She had watched Rhaella sail away on the spring winds, Viserys amongst her skirts waving a tearful farewell to his cousin.  
"Mother, mother make him take us with you." She had pleaded. "Robert Baratheon will slay my son in his sleep and lock me away, I beg of you." But Rhaella only tapped her cheek, a bloody, broken mess and sighed.  
"I did my child. I was a fiery woman once, long ago.” Rhaella had sighed, her golden crown held high on her head. “He taught me how to hold my tongue, in his way. I was not made for him, I was fated for another. This is our fate when we intervene with destiny. We do it to our doom." Elia couldn't help but think she meant her, that she had come between Rhaegar's northern destiny like Aerys had for her knight. She had wished for Dorne as her only friend, her Mother floated away, across the bay. Oberyn had the right of it, King's Landing was no place for desert flowers, dragons would scorch the world, turn it to ash and cinder as long as it was theirs alone.  _Selfish beasts, all of them._ A man in a dark brown robe whipped past her, she almost let him go but a shining bald head caught her eye and she reached out and grabbed the arm.  
"Varys! My Lord Varys, what has happened? Where is the King? My children?" She clung desperately at him. He smelled of powder so sweet it made her feel queasy. His cloak was too large for him as if something large was concealed beneath. His manner seemed nervous, almost frightened and he pulled his cloak tighter around him. "Your children are safe but the city has been breached, the traitorous Tywin Lannister was let through the gates and is burning the city. The rebels have the lion lord, all is lost."  
"Lord Tywin..." She wondered after Ser Jaime and how he now stood between an army with his father at its front and the king.  _Such an ill fated boy. "_ What of my children, the storm lord will kill my children!" She grabbed at his robes, she gripped him so tightly she felt his skin break beneath her nails.  _Even spiders bleed._  
"Your blood is safe princess, find shelter and this storm may pass" His eyes did not meet hers and he broke away as he hurried off on silent slippers and she stood dumbfounded in the corridor as men swirled around her swords unsheathed. She walked more slowly now and she came upon a high window, she looked out over the city and an orange glow floated into the night from it. Swords clanged below and the soft swift wind created by arrows sprang from the walls below. The shadows of men could be seen from her view and they screamed as they fell. She turned away and a man in a black and red cloak skidded to a halt before her, bowing. "Your Grace they are at the gates to the keep, you must go to safety, to your children."  
"Yes... yes ser. Thank you." She watched him hurry off, she never asked his name, she doubt she would ever know it. The city was taken and the soldiers at their door meant only to do them harm. She came upon the nursery at last and ran in. Her son bawled in his cot, woken by the noise of the war, his wet nurse cowered in a corner sobbing. She scooped him up in her arms and put him at her breast, soothing him, stroking his soft face. She turned to the craven woman  
"If you must go, then go." The woman leapt from the corner and out into the hall without a backward glance. Aegon quieted down as he suckled and she looked about the room. Her daughter was nowhere, she turned back keeping the baby in one arm and wrenched open the door. She saw three knights in bronze scales, Uncle Lewyn had left them behind as her sworn shields and in the arms of one was Rhaenys.  
"Mama!" She wriggled free and ran towards her mother, wrapping her arms around her thighs clutching at the dress. She had not called her mama in so long, mother was what princesses were taught, mama was a child's name.  
"Rhay let us go, to the nursery come. You will be safe now." She looked up at her wide eyed, her eyes were not quite Dornish, a golden shade of brown rather than black.   
“Your grace we would have come to your aid sooner.”  
“It does not matter now Ser Kallan, my daughter will be safe now. My guards are here.” More orange cloaks bearing the speared sun of House Martell ran down the hall way to stand behind their commander.   
"We are to guard you here your Grace, I will be beside you and the prince and princess. Seven more guards will be posted outside the doors, let us go in." He ushered her into the dark room as more guards lined up outside but he gave them a quiet words and they nodded as he shut the door behind him. Rhaenys shivered against her, holding her sweaty palm tightly and Aegon nuzzled against her breast sleepily. The knight lit a candle beside the cot and stood before her then knelt. "It is my honour to protect you and the little princess and prince. My life is yours, by the graces of the gods today is not the day we die."  
"Let us live to see the dawn Ser." She replied croakily. She sat on the chair in the corner of the dark room with a child on each knee. She rocked them both soothingly and hummed a tune Rhaegar used to sing to them. He may not have loved her but he loved them.  _No_ , she thought,  _he loved her more._ A whole war, a whole kingdom bleeding because he loved the wrong girl. Ser Kallan stood in front of the wooden door with sword drawn, resting its point on the ground before him. They waited in silence for what seemed like hours, but the night continued to remain black outside the windows. The silence was unbearable; the sounds from the city were balanced only by the constant swelling of the sea beyond the keep. The waves knew no war or heartache, they continued to reach for the shore, ceaselessly. She rocked her children gently, resting her head comfortingly on Rhaenys. _If I am brave they will be too._  
"My kitten!" Rhaenys suddenly yelped. "Mama I can't leave him! He'll be ever so frightened!" Her eyes brimmed with tears as she tried to scramble from her mother's lap. Elia gripped on to her fiercely.  
"It's too late Rhay, he will hide, he will be safe but it is not for us."  
"But bad things happen when he's not here, like when father isn't here." Her silent tears fell. She stroked her daughter's hair lovingly.  
"It's alright my sweet, I will shield you." But just then a great cry went up just outside the door followed by a quick banging with cries of "Ser Kallan!" The Dornish man threw open the door and a cloaked figure appeared, sword drawn.  
"The King is dead." Elias gasped, clutching her son to her. She stood up from the chair setting Rhaenys down on the floor.  
"By whose hand?" Kallan asked aghast, opening the door so he could join them on the other side of the door.  
"Jaime Lannister." Avowed a voice. Kallan went pale, his bronze skin yellow in the dim light and closed the door behind him. She let her mouth hang open in disbelief.  
"Ser Jaime? But he is part of the guard, he was chosen..." She could not believe that brave, beautiful boy could be full of such malice.  
"A traitor, a kingslayer. Prince Aegon is the King now." They stood in silence again, the Mad King dead, within two weeks of his son. She stared down at Aegon, a King and he was barely a year old, but she saw it now the sands of time had begun to change him and he was growing. _Soon he will be a man and a King and I will have to let him go_. Elia reached down for her daughters hand but did not find it. She looked about the room quickly, squinting her eyes in the dark.  
"NO! Rhaenys! She must have run out to get her damned cat! No, I must-"A shriek came from the corridor and the ring of steel on steel rattled in her head. The light from the sky was extinguished and the room was black as a dark shadow shielded the stars. The window shattered and in the ragged gap left stood a mountain. Broader than any man she had ever seen, eight feet in height he cast a monstrous shadow. In his hand was a sword as long as a her and just a heavy. Ser Kallan stepped between them raising his own sword but Elia could see the fear in his eyes, she could hear his heart beating furiously in his chest. The man stepped down from the window frame and with one movement swung his sword. Elia had thought for a moment he had missed Ser Kallan for he did not move but slowly his body began to separate and she screamed horribly. Blood spattered the floor and the knight lay in two pieces amongst it. The man stepped towards her and she scrambled backwards towards the wall but there was no escape. Her heart beat furiously, trying to escape its fate. He raised his unarmed hand and ripped the baby from her.  
"No! Please, he's just a babe. Please, please." She wailed. The great man held her writhing child by the neck like a dog, the baby shrieked at the pain. "My son, no please. I beg you. PLEASE" The man raised his sword hand and swiped at her face. She felt as though her forehead had been torn apart and blood gushed from above her eyes. He took the babe in his hand and drew back his arm. Aegon's head was crushed by the stone and he cried no more. Elia screamed. She fell to her knees, reaching out to the blood mess that was her sweet child, her only son.  _Dead_. The mountain turned to her and grabbed her in a huge hand by the neck dangling her two feet above the ground choking her; she clawed at his hand for air. He threw her to the ground on her stomach her face connected with the stone agonisingly and began to lift her skirts. "No, please. "She sobbed, pleading. She knew it was no use. He roughly grabbed the back of her head pressing it to the floor, inches away from the mangled skull of her still bleeding son. He entered her, ripping her to pieces over and over, she begged and cried and pleaded, her tears and blood mingling with her son's blood that came creeping towards her across the floor. She prayed.   _If there are gods, let them end this pain._ With each thrust she felt the stitches the maester had carefully sown unravel inside her.  _Rhaenys,_  she thought,  _please let them have spared her. Please._ The wraith finished and she was raw and numb, as if her insides were pouring out of her, the floor was slick with her blood. He grabbed her off the floor, ripping her hair out, her long curls knotted in his hands tilting her head back towards the ceiling. He must have cut her because she felt her throat sear, she heard her open neck flap as she sucked desperately for air. She fell back to the ground clawing at her ripped throat and the room grew even darker around her, she looked on the now unfamiliar face of her son.  _My sweet son, my sweet daughter, Rhaegar look at what you have done to us._ She could see the dawn nearing through the broken window.  _Red_ , she thought,  _a sky coloured like my dreams._


	28. The Maiden Fair

An eastern wind swept across the valley and rippled through the trees like a great wave, the rumbling rustle of them in the silent mountains sounded like a giant awakened in the deep. She sat quietly listening to the leaves and the creaking of a thousand branches. The dagger in her hand gleamed in the light and in the other a hairbrush, worn and beaten; it's wooden handle smooth and sturdy. She had spent an age brushing the knots from her hair; she had even placed the blade upon it, wishing to cut it, imagining it falling to the ground. But she only lowered the knife and picked up the brush again. Rhaegar had loved her hair, he had run his long fingers through it, she almost felt them now, she almost felt his breath on her neck, the shallow sigh he'd give in sleep. He'd called her _"my love"_ once. What a hurtful thing to call a woman, my love.  _A dead man could love a woman forever_ , she thought. She could think of nothing before, she remembered her life as if it were a dream, a dream that faded so swiftly like water cupped in her pleading hands. The three knights cloaked in white had stood in the doorway, solemn, mournful, each one full of sadness.  _Fallen on the Trident,_ they said.  _By the hand of the rebel lord._  There were other words too, but they swelled in her ears until they were nothing but noise, talk of Kings and Lannisters and dead children cloaked in red meant nothing to her at all.  _What care do I give to a world that is not mine?_  She had not slept since then, days ago now, maybe weeks.  _What if I woke?_   She thought,  _and reached my hand for him across our bed and felt his absence and knew all over again that he was gone and I was here._  She could see the letter Ser Arthur had placed on the floor, it would crackle in the breeze and she would ignore it.  _Dead men cannot write, they have no thoughts or memories._  She wondered if in time she would be the only one who remembered him, who knew that he had stood and felt and loved, or if he would start to fade from her too. Every time she closed her eyes she saw his face and prayed that it never left her.  _Do not let me forget, it is all I have._  She heard the door open and close. She knew it was Ser Arthur without looking. He had looked sadder than any man she had ever seen.  _His dearest friend_. He placed a cloth with food wrapped in it beside her feet. food she would not touch.  
"You have not read the letter my lady." She could not read, she would not. The last time she had read a word it had been when her arms had someone to hold and she felt something, anything.  _What good are books now? Let them burn._  Rhaegar had read and he had died, she would not read. _I love a man of bones_ , she thought.  _A man who is nothing more now than a shade of what he was._  The sun blinded her but she stared at it anyway, her eyes burning.  _He is only a memory but perhaps that is sweeter, a memory cannot die._  
"I feel as if I have stood too long in the sun and now there is only darkness." Her voice was cracked and dry, a weak thing crawling on the shore after so long at sea.  
"My lady there may be darkness now but light will come again, when your child is born you will know love once more." She had no answer, she waited until the silence became too much for him to bare and he left.  _How can this child be born when it is ours, to raise together, to teach together?_  It seemed foolish to think a child even existed in her without him, now that it was hers to bare and birth alone. The room was too familiar, her stomach too swollen to leave she knew but every corner, every stone held a piece of Rhaegar, his restless pacing in the night, a single shard of mirror he had brushed his hair in. She had lain on the bed when the knights had left her, their pitying faces retreating into the darkness and rested her head on his pillow, breathing in his scent.  _Could I have imagined him? Could I have imagined bliss?_  She had stared at the ivory sheets and there, glistening in the candle light was a single silver hair.

Ser Arthur came the next day to replace the food she had not touched. She wondered why the other two did not venture here, Lord Gerold had softened a little but there was still coldness in his glare. The other she had barely seen, Ser Oswell Whent, she wondered if he was frightened of what she would say, if she would cry.  _Knights of the Kingsguard should be used to hearing terrible things_ , she thought,  _I am a terrible thing_. She watched the pale haired knight replaced the food in place of the last, his hair shielding his iron face he could have been Rhaegar, though larger, bulkier. When he felt her gaze on him and looked up she stared away quickly.  _Why did you not die instead? Why must the one I love be dead but you still stand and breathe?_  The gods had played her a cruel joke, to offer her freedom only to snatch it away and leave her with less than before. She had been a dutiful daughter, she had learn to dance and sow and sing and lived in her brother's shadows. She had knelt before the old gods as her father taught her, she had learnt to read as the maester told her. She had been sold off to a brute who fucked any woman he pleased, spilling his seed across Westeros as if it were the rainfall. She had gone, dutifully, to lie dormant in a tower for the rest of her life. When Rhaegar had come for her she had thought this was her time to live a life she wanted to live. But he had ridden to war, a war she had started.  _Rhaegar thought himself weak for coming for me, but I am weak for leaving with him_.  _I am destined to a life alone, to raise our child who will only ever know him as a memory, a legend, nothing more than a tale with a tragic end._  She saw the dagger gleaming on the floor and wondered if it would be less painful to cut the babe out of her now, slice through the flesh and rip it from her than it be born with his likeness and be reminded of her loss every day.  _It is a mad thought._  She heard footsteps beyond the door and murmured voices.  
"She did not eat, nor the day before. She will grow weak and she is heavy with child, she will need strength for that."  
"I cannot make her eat Oswell, I will not force it on her."  
"We are here to protect blood, if the child dies then we have failed. We failed our princess, sweet sorrowful Elia and her murdered children. We have failed our King who we vowed to protect. Should she face the same fate will you long to have forced it on her then? When you have failed your dear friend's dying wish?"  
"Not enough time has passed for the mention of my prince's demise to not be a dagger in my heart." Ser Arthur said sadly. "You will not do it again." His voice was iron and no more words were uttered behind the wood. The breeze tumbled through the gaping hole of rock, the day was so dazzlingly clear Skyreach could be seen, its pale stone towers were swords in the mountains. She could even see tiny flags whipped by the fierce wind on the heights, they must be able to see her but she did not care. They would come for her soon enough and she wondered what King Robert would make of his sweet Lyanna, he has made his hands so bloody, the lives of so many a burden on his shoulders she was sure hers would be just another one to take.  _Let him come, he could not kill me even if it took a hundred years, he could not kill me._  She looked north, imagined she were a bird, free in flight, the Storm Land's rolling under her, Storm's End cold on its rock, the Red Keep burning and red, her brothers beside the new King.  _At_   _least they will find a place in this new age_ , she thought. She saw the Trident, its water ceaselessly thundering to the sea, as if it knew no war, no death. She saw the water turn to corpses, saw the dead bobbing along, bloated and grey. Amongst them a silver head with endless staring eyes. She screwed her eyes tightly trying to banish the vision but it lingered, she supposed it was the sort of thing that always would.  _How can such a beautiful thing be gone?_  Mayhaps it was men's fate to purge the world of all its fairness and sweetness, to slay a great beast so it's head could adorn his walls, to capture a songbird until it had no more songs. She had seen a mummer's show once and a glorious black bear they brought to the winter town, chained, beaten and baited to fight. She had thought it was so like men, to take something beautiful and twist it until it was nothing at all.

Ser Arthur replaced the food one evening as the sun was setting. She wondered if he volunteered to do it or if he was forced. Mayhaps he wanted to speak with her, he had lost a man he had loved too. She could hear the echoing of a waterfall somewhere in the valley, Rhaegar had said they would find it one day, together. She saw him splashing in the water happily, his silver hair shining but all too quickly he floated, his skin was grey again and his chest an empty hole that had held a heart.  
"They did not burn him, nor bury him. He will not rest in any place." She said. Ser Arthur stared at her so shocked it was as if he had never heard her speak before.  _When was the last time I spoke?_  
"Only a monster dishonours the dead my lady."  _Was Robert a monster or was he a man? Didn't every man dishonour the dead?_  She did not say a word. "He is at peace, wherever he is."  
"He should be here, he should be King." There were so many things Rhaegar was destined for that he would never fulfil. He would never raise their child, he would never teach it a sweet song, it would never know the warmth of his golden skin.  _Neither will I._  
"The good always die my lady." His voice had the same iron tones that Rhaegar's had had, but this Sword of the Morning had none of his warmth.  
"And the evil? What happens to them?"  
"They remain. That is their punishment in the eyes of the gods."  _What gods?_ She thought.  _Where were the gods when my father sold me off like cattle? Where were the gods when I prayed for freedom from a stormy end? Where were the gods when Rhaegar drowned in his own blood?_  The Old Gods, the new, neither mattered, a godless man died the same as a pious one. Ser Arthur got up from his knee and picked the letter from the floor, placing it in her lap. "Mayhaps, this will give you comfort my lady, though I fear no words ever will." She stared at the parchment and when she turned to thank Ser Arthur for his words the room was black and only the starlight remained, time had begun to unravel and she could not keep a grip on its loose thread. The letter was sealed with black and red wax, a three headed dragon imprinted on it. She had seen the seal before, a lifetime ago at Harrenhal _. How could I have known then that he would die for me? If I had would I have let him leave, would I have left the letter unanswered and thrown it to the fire?_   She knew she could not have, his words would have said it better but she knew they were destined for one another. He was the sun and she was the moon, one could not shine without the other and her days were starless. She broke the seal with a shaking hand and saw his familiar swirling script as she looked over it, not truly reading the words it seemed so odd a living man had written these words, that blood had flowed through his veins, that he had breathed life into them once. As she unrolled it fully a tiny piece of paper fluttered to the ground at her feet, swinging backwards and forwards as it fell, rocked like a mother would a babe. She clutched it in her hand and on it was written a solitary sentence. She had been iron, she had been steel and with one sentence she was glass, she was ice and she was broken.


	29. The Sword of the Morning

The dark pressed in on them, like a fog that crept through the trees into their minds.  
He sat at the entrance of the tower watching the night. The whisper of the wind through the branches sounded like an army and every shadow the murdering usurper's face. _There is no escape_. Lady Lyanna had broken water two days before and at first she had tried dearly to be strong, not letting a word escape her lips. Then it started. Arthur had thought the whole of Dorne would hear her cries. They became cries, eventually. He and his brothers had not heard her shed a single tear, not since the night Prince Rhaegar's doom became known to them all.  _Where is he now?_  Arthur imagined his face, swollen in death, floating listlessly in the undercurrent of the Trident, his silver gold hair fanning out around him, his heavy dark armour weighing him down in the deep. It was a solemn thought but even good men die. Lord Gerold had ridden to the inn the day before to hear more news of the sack of King's Landing. King Robert Baratheon, first of his name they called him, though only dragons could be kings. More and more Dornish men fleeing for the sandy desert of home told the tale of the trident, but a few sellswords told of Elia and her children, of King Aerys and his Kingslayer. He was glad Ashara had returned home long ago or she might be dead too. These war-worn men were safest in Dorne, they had lost Princess Elia and her royal uncle. He supposed even now, miles away Prince Lewyn's nephews sat in their castle plotting and mourning. The men from the Trident told of Prince Lewyn and Ser Jonothor deaths in battle, how they fought brilliantly and bravely. "Fine men, mighty warriors, true brothers." Gerold had said mournfully. True brothers dead whilst a false one breathed the air he was unworthy of.  _Where are you now Lewyn? Jonothor? Rhaegar?_ He had left word to protect Lady Lyanna, but they were doomed. No matter how skilled they were at war, how -they sharpened their blades, if the new king came with an army they could not hope to live.  
Ser Oswell's heavy footsteps could be heard on the stairs, he knew his brothers well enough to know their footfall. Oswell sank down on the step beside him with a sigh throwing aside a cloth that had once been white but was now stained crimson.  
"A bloody mess. I did not wish to voice it but she surely has a fever Arthur," He put his head in his hands, kneading at his eyes with them. "She bleeds day and night and the child has shown no signs of coming. What can I do? I am no maester and I fear even if I were she would be beyond my help now." Oswell looked how Arthur felt, completely helpless.  
"The child must be saved." Arthur said solemnly.  
"And the girl? We are to let her die in this godsforsaken place?"  
"Death comes for us all, eventually Oswell. Our dear friend Rhaegar could tell you as much." Oswell turned his face from him and stared out across the mountains bathed in the milky glow of the moon. "If she dies we did all we could for her and if they come for her I wield my life as I would my sword to shield her. I fear what awaits her more, should she return to the North and the new king sees his maiden bride spoilt by his enemy."  
"If the child is born we may take it across the Narrow Sea, they may never know."  
"The lady will never bend the knee. Lady Lyanna has the wild north in her, would she consent to marry the man who put a dent in Rhaegar's heart?"  
"More likely she would do him the same courtesy."  
"Then she would do what Rhaegar, Aerys, you, I and every Dornish man, Tyrell and Targaryen could not."  
"Will the usurper come? Surely it would be unwise to leave the throne when he has only just claimed it."  
"He will not come. It will be the Lord of Winterfell that comes for his sister. Though she would still think it her father."  
"She does not know he's dead?"  
"Nor her brother." Should she die she will see them soon, such sweet sorrows that would be, to only learn she had lost them when she found them once more. "She bares too much woe already brother, save such word for a better time." They watched the darkening night in silence, it seemed not even the voices of the forest would call tonight.  _Our sadness is poison._

Lord Gerold joined them as the sun began to stain the sky for another dawn, though not even the sight of the sun lifting her golden head over the mountains could ease Arthur's mourning.  _Rhaegar would have seen the beauty in such a sight, all I see is his absence._ His brothers talked quietly behind him and he let the sun burn his eyes, he thought of Lady Lyanna high in her tower, wondering if any sunrise would ever be as wonderful as those she had once known or if Rhaegar had burned too brightly and she was left in his darkness.  _Mother_ , he prayed,  _let their child be born, let her pain be eased for she has seen and lost too much. Guide her Mother, do not abandon her._  He wondered if he meant it for her, or for himself.  
"Lord Eddard is an honourable man, Rhaegar's imagined crimes aside we have kept his lady sister from harm." Oswell's voice floated into his prayers and his eyes turned back to them and away from the day.  
"Stand amongst the dead and ask them what they might trade for their honour." Arthur said, "Lord Eddard will not thank us for our part in King Aerys war, nor will he put aside his loyalty to his usurping brother in arms. Lady Lyanna had mentioned it before, a Stark notion, the man that passes the punishment should swing the sword."  
"So he will come with enough men to defeat us but not an army. When I was a younger man it was the same thing." Lord Gerold said with a twitch of his lips, Arthur could barely muster a smile.

The tower room was dark when he entered, though the day was at its peak, the curtains had been drawn. Holes in the heavy cloth dotted the room in dappled yellow light and the unmistakable scent of blood struck him. In the dim Lady Lyanna lay, unmoving, wrapped in a sheet. Even covered in sweat, her bare legs caked in dried blood she was still fair, though her skin paler, her hair wilder. He placed the flagon of water beside her and watched her worriedly, beads of sweat formed on her forehead though she seemed to shiver slightly with each breath. He picked a blanket from the floor and placed it over her.  _She does not shiver from the cold_ , he thought. A curl had fallen across her face and he reached forward tentatively to move it aside. His hand seemed too large against her sweet face, he was a monster, a brute and she was delicate, merely a flower, a winter rose. She stirred in her sleep and whispered a name under her breath, a name said with such wistful longing Arthur's heart seemed to tighten in his chest to hear her say it. He felt the weight of all his sadness on him then.  
She woke as the light faded and Arthur lit a candle to alleviate the dark. Lady Lyanna stirred a little and then sat bolt upright, grabbed her swollen belly as she stared wide eyed at him.  
"My lady I-" he started to say but she held up a shaking hand to stop him. Her skin looked the silver shade of the moon and glistened with sweat, she opened her mouth to speak but only a gargling, gagging sound came from her throat and she vomited a clear vile smelling liquid into her lap. The chamber filled with the scent and it stung his nostrils, she stared down at herself her eyes brimming with tears. "My lady, what can I do to ease your pain?"  
"Nothing, nothing." She whispered softly.  _She is a child, she needs the comforting arms of a mother rather than a dead lover._  
"Air perhaps?" He moved toward the window and she nodded. He threw open the curtains and the poison air spilled past him and he sat with her as the night crept in and her eyes fluttered open again.  
"You must think me a fool,"She said, her chest rising and falling with each word, her voice strained. "The honourable Sword of the Morning sent to guard a prince's whore and his bastard."  
"You are no whore my lady, your blood is that of the First Men. You are a Stark of Winterfell."  
"And such  _honour_  I have brought them." she said miserably. "How many men died on the Trident Ser?" Too many was the truth but war is a heavy burden and it is not one any can carry alone. The dried blood on the sheets had turned wet again and the bulge in her belly convulsed. Arthur thought she must be in great pain but she only stared out at the dark room.  _What cruel gods do punish those who live for love._  
"Men died on the Trident my lady, Baratheons, Starks, Targaryens, Martells, princes, knights and commonmen but none of their blood is on your hands. You did not wield the blade that cut the life from them."  
"Yet without me they would live." Arthur could not comfort her further, corpses scattered across the realm could see it with their hollow eyes as Lyanna Stark saw it with hers. "He knew it too, he felt their souls bare down on him. He dreamt of them and they tortured his dreams."  
"Rhaegar Targaryen dreamt of many things my lady." The dragons of old and the inferno of Summerhall, of Kings past now wrought in stone and steel to the crown resting on his own head with a dark haired Queen with skin pale as the moon beside him, Prince Rhaegar's dreams were vivid and ceaseless, yet there was no dark sorcery in their depths only the musings of a bored mind. Yet he had dreamed, and lived and would die in legend, the last dragon, the silver prince beautiful as a maidens fancy, drowned with all his magic on the Trident and all that he left behind before Arthur now, in the belly of a heartbroken lover.  
He turned from her to stare listlessly across the black forest. He thought of how he had given his life to his King all those years ago, he wondered what he had sacrificed to be an honourable man.  _Why do men chose to live for another? Why do they praise duty and honour above all? Why do they suffer for an imagined cause of a mad man?_ King Robert would face the same fate as King Aerys, no King who won his throne in blood could keep it without it.  
A Northern wind bent the trees and between the rustling leaves an orange glow flickered between the cracking branches.  _A light._  
"Someone approaches." He said softly to himself instinctively reaching for Dawn across his back, he strode toward the door and turned back only on a second thought. "It seems this night will test us both my lady."  
"The dark has tested us well enough already Ser." She said with the faintest of smiles that he saw in his mind as he thundered down the steps where his brothers sat, he pointed toward the forest.  
"An enemy approaches."

His brothers stood beside him, pale stone in the darkness. They did not move, only waited and watched. Lord Stark moved into the starlight he tightened his hand around Dawn and she trembled beneath his touch. He felt the air pulse with their tension, Lord Stark's long awaited and well earned reward just beyond his grasp.  _How he must hate me, how he must curse my dutiful heart._  
"I looked for you on the Trident," Lord Eddard's voice echoed in the valley.  
"We were not there," Gerold answered gravely.  
"Woe to the Usurper if we had been," said Oswell.  
"When King's Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were."  
"Far away," Gerold said, "or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven hells." Arthur wondered if it was the seven hells that would await Jaime Lannister, or if in time his guilt would drive him mad, the whispers of his dishonour be too much to bare and his punishment would be living not death.  
"I came down on Storm End's to lift the siege," Lord Stark told them, "and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners, and all their knights bent the knee to pledge us fealty. I was certain you would be among them."  
"Our knees do not bend easily," said Arthur coldly.  
"Ser Willem Darry has fled to Dragonstone, with your queen and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with him."  
"Ser Willem is a good man and true," said Oswell.  
"But not of the Kingsguard," Gerold pointed out. "The Kingsguard does not flee."  
"Then or now," said Arthur, he took his silver helm from under his arm and placed it over his head.  
"We swore a vow," Gerold said as six shadows floated from the dark into the clearing. Seven, it would have been a godly number if these Northern lords did not believe in their Old Gods. Arthur recognised few of them, the red beard of Lord Willam Dustin he had seen before but another face caught his eye. Last he had seen of Ethan Glover he had rotted in a black cell, awaiting his death like his master but now he was hardened, he was cold. No longer a boy, but a man born in darkness.  
"And now it begins," said Arthur, Dawn caught the stars, the blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light.  
"No," Lord Stark said regrettfully. "Now it ends."

Ten swords moved through the night, each one gleaming, each one gory. A grey bearded, scarred man lunged from the fray, his battle worn longsword held high. He wore the rugged furs of the northern mountain clans though Arthur did not know which one. Dawn met his blade and it shuddered in the clansmen's hand and he lunged again. Arthur's greatsword sliced through his breastplate as if it were butter, it parted for his blade made of stars and the man fell. A bloodied Lord Dustin stumbled away from the reach of Gerold's sword and into the path of Dawn, sparks flew as the blades collided. He took quick steps back as Arthur reigned down on him, blow after blow, instead of growing tired Arthur felt more alive, more awake than he had in years.  _How long since I have seen a fight? Smelt the iron of blood in the air?_  This was the brute he tried to bury, the man that loved the scent of blood and the song of steel. Arthur felt another behind him and he swung round to meet his foe. Ethan Glover stood, terrified in the dark as his blade shattered, only the hilt left in his quivering hand. He stared at Arthur, a mixture of fear and anger in his hollowed eyes.  _He longs to see a few more meals and few more sunrises, he is not ready to die._ Ethan drew another sword from a sheath, throwing his broken blade behind him but as he did he stopped in his tracks, a guttural scream poured from his helm and from the front of his throat the point of a sword appeared, bloody with the insides of his neck. The squire turned knight stared pleadingly at Arthur until Oswell mercifully withdrew and the boy died.

Gerold fell first, the white of his cloak turning crimson black, a white bull with out horns. Arthur thought of Jamie Lannister, how he had smiled with such sorrow as he watched his brothers ride from King's Landing, his own cloak crimson beneath the ivory. A man Lord Eddard named Ser Mark cut the life from his lord commander and Oswell no sooner had returned the favour. Lord Dustin charged forward with Lord Stark at his heels, Arthur met them, his fury for his fallen brothers, his drowned friend and his murdered king welling up inside him like a great wave brewing out in the ocean with no rock to break against. He collided with them, two swords against one, the wounded Lord Dustin stumbled backwards but Lord Stark stood his ground, his Valyrian sword held high, connected with Arthur's. He heard his brother grunt behind him and he turned for an instant to see a blade stabbed through Oswell's shoulder by a knight missing half an arm and another dagger in his back. He pushed back Lord Stark and charged toward the man.  
"Ser Martyn!" The northern lord called and the knight of House Cassel turned as Arthur put his sword through his visor, he felt Lord Dustin in pursuit and in the same swift movement turned, spraying the knight's face across them and cut the northern lord's head from his shoulders. His steel helm rolled noisily across the hard ground, his head clattering wetly inside. Oswell was staring up endlessly from the grass, his sword still held limply in his hand.  
"Brother." He whispered. He knelt in the blood soaked ground to close his glassy eyes filled with the misty stars. Arthur looked about him and only two men remained, the Lord of Winterfell stood back from Arthur said his silent prayer beside the corpse and beyond him, in the shadow of the forest the smallest of the seven, a man barely four foot in size, wearing no helm nor plate, only thick boiled leather covered him and a long double pronged spear was held in one slender hand. Arthur stood, rising from his knee and felt the heaviness of his cloak.  _Mine too turns red, but I am not dead yet Lord Stark_. The stern faced northerner seemed to blanch a little as Arthur swung Dawn around and placed her point in the soft earth. The small man stood beside him now, his eyes glinting and his spear ready.  
"The Sword of the Morning," Eddard said, with what seemed like fear tinged with reverence.  
"A sword aye, but this is the night, my lord." Added the small man croakily.  
"There will be a morning, for some my lords," He raised his sword again, as they took steps towards him, quickening their pace. "But first I shall bring the Dawn."

They clashed under the silvery moon, the stars watched, spectators in a tourney of the gods. With each ear-splitting clang of steel on steel another sharp ringing followed as Arthur batted away this crannogman's spear. The one Lord Stark named Lord Reed danced away from Arthur's reach as if he were the wind itself. His feet trod lightly on the sodden ground and he spun circles around the knights in heavy plate. Arthur heard Lord Stark's breath heavy in his helm, he heard the forest deafeningly in the wind tumbling over the mountains, he heard the whispering a of a cry on the heights. The spear cut him, finding skin to slice at his shoulder and he gritted his teeth against the bite.  _I wonder do these men of the Neck use poison like the Red Viper?_ He supposed he would know it soon enough. There was a cry from high and Lord Eddard's sword hung in the air, suspended, his eyes widening as he recognised his sisters voice.  
"Brother? Brandon? Eddard?" Lady Lyanna called desperately from her stone chamber. She sounded frail, weak, her voice withered more like a crone than a young maid. _Has the babe been birthed? Does a dragon king yet live?_ __  
"Lyanna?" He shouted, his voice echoing around the valley and rolled up the mountains and over, Arthur wondered if the Usurper would hear it on his throne of murdered children.  
"Eddard!" She called again this time with a little relief. Arthur met his sword with a clang.  
"I will not speak ill of the dead my lord, but this bloodshed is a farce. We fight for the same cause my lord."  
"She is my blood and she has been dishonoured." Arthur only held his gaze a little longer before Dawn clashed with Ice again. How he had wished for it when he had seen it unsheathed by Lord Rickard, but now a different man wielded it, one who had seen too many men die on a field and too many of his kin murdered for little purpose. Grief can change a man, it can shape him into a vengeful creature.

They danced for what seemed hours and the sky had begun to pale beyond the mountains.  _I warned I would bring the dawn but will I bring the day too?_ Both Arthur and Lord Eddard's swords did not rise as high, both breathed fiercely in their thick helms but the frogeater did not tire, jabbing his pronged spear only to scurry away before he could his arm round. He knew better than to try and kill him first, Lord Stark even tired was the stronger man and it was the small lord's intention to distract him. Reed tested his patience, it was a blessing of the gods that it was Arthur's virtue, but he swung for the man anyway and caught his face, slicing through his cheek before the man could scamper away. In that moment Lord Stark plunged his Valyrian blade through his steel breastplate and cut deep enough for Arthur to feel his breath shorten. The pain radiated from the sword to the very tips of his fingers and he ground his teeth tightly to keep from yelling out and battled to keep grip on his hilt. Each breath rattled in his iron chest, seeming to shake the ivory scales of his armour and Arthur's vision with it. The earth shattered and slid but he clung to the figures before him, framed by the black trees.  _The boy must be saved. I promised, my final promise it seems._ He raised his sword again but he felt the blood pulse in his head and the mountains darkened though he knew the sun had begun to stain their edges.  _Warrior_ , he prayed,  _protect me now, guide my blade for my cause is godly._  He kept his swaying eyes on Lord Stark, a foolish notion it had been to attack a mere distraction but now he knew and if he didn't the sharpness of each mouthful of air bitterly reminded him. He felt the spear spike him again but battered down on Lord Stark all the same, hammer his plate, cutting and stabbing. He bled from each wound and yelled in agony. Arthur felt the crannogman behind him again and then a searing pain through his left knee. As he fell he felt the steel drive deeper through the flesh and bone and it crunched miserably on the ground beneath him. Lord Stark scrambled to his feet and Arthur tried to rise but as he did his breath caught and he heaved, feeling an ominous warmth filling the mail between the plate.  _Blood, this northerner has put a dagger in my heart._  He rose again, steel scraped on bone and the spear made his legs tremble.  _My knees may bend but my will does not, nor does my loyalty._  As he stood, bent almost double, Lord Stark spun round him and put his sword through the other knee and he fell forward, swinging Dawn as he went, feeling he hilt slip through his bloody fingertips. _She has betrayed me, or is it I that have betrayed her?_ He stared up Lord Eddard, with Dawn scattered by his side the crannogman's foot on her hilt and with Ice resting on the back of his neck. It was done, his fight was done.  _Have I failed? Or was this my fate all along?,_  he thought.  
"She is yours Lord Stark," He said in a low clouded whisper. "But soon you will know why such blood was spilt. Soon you will make a choice and then you will know."  
"Know, ser?" he asked solemnly.  
"What kind of man you truly are." Arthur nodded and closed his eyes as he heard the sword swoop through the air, a steel beast with wings.

 


	30. Epilogue

The day broke and time rolled on as it ever did.  
A raven cawed somewhere as it circled the towers of Winterfell. Ravens only ever brought him sorrow now, no word worth sending was ever good.  _Dark wings, dark words_. He dressed slowly, there was no need for haste anymore, the war was done and there was peace. But it was not peace he felt, the air in North was empty and Benjen felt empty. He didn't eat the morning meal that was laid before him, he could not imagine ever wanting to eat again. He went out into the courtyard and he felt the sad stares of each servant on him.  _They pity me._  Almost all were dressed in black and all looked mournful. He made for the crypts and descended the deep, dark staircase to the hall below. Every Stark who could be, was laid to rest here, even the old Kings of the North stood swords in hand, immortal in stone. His skin prickled as if someone watched him and he shivered in his cloak.  _The dead do not see_ , he thought. He walked past his grandfather and came to rest before two stone figures that shone, newly sculpted. His father was even more impressive in stone as he was in life and he knelt before him, resting his head at his marble feet. "Please do not go father" he had said, "Or take me with you."  
"There must always be a Stark at Winterfell Ben, I need you here." He had said, he put a hand under his sons chin and rubbed the bristle there. "You are a man grown my son, be brave. I will bring Brandon home to us." He had mounted his horse, his thick fur cloak splayed across its hindquarters and galloped away; Ben had watched him ride until he was a speck on the horizon. Of all the Starks that rode through the thick weirwood gates only one would ride back through them, a bag of bones for each of his kin. It would be here they would rest, in dreamless, endless sleep until he joined them. He looked at the sculpture of Brandon, tall and proud.  _He was born to be a Lord_. A third plinth sat beside Brandon, statue-less but a name had already been carved upon it. _Lyanna_. He felt hot tears prick in his eyes and they fell as he thought of her. It was said King Robert wept for her too, his one love but he had married his golden Queen Cersei before his sister was cold. Ned would bring her back, but it would not be her, no spirit, no life, only the emptiness that was left when all that mattered was taken. He wondered what the dragon prince had done to her.  _H_ _ad he killed her?_  He remembered the wrath he had felt when he heard she had been stolen, but he had no wrath for Rhaegar Targaryen anymore. _He has paid his price_. He wished he could have seen her once more, it had been two years since they parted ways, since she had kissed his cheek and held him tightly and whispered her sweet farewell in his ear. He cried for his brother, for his father, for his fair sister. He had nothing and he felt nothing _._  He stood and put a hand on his father's stone cheek.  
"I am sorry father, forgive me. I am a craven, I know." He wiped the tears from his face, using his cloak to rub his eyes. He took the stairs heavily, hoping his red eyes would be gone by the time he reached the top. The light was almost blinding compared to the dim tomb. He walked back through the courtyard, with every step came another memory. Brandon kissing a girl in the shadows beneath that pillar, Lyanna being berated by a handmaid for her muddy dress in that doorway. He closed his eyes, he did not want to see, and he did not want to remember. The clanging of swords as Brandon fought him and Lyanna looked on enviously from a window as their father strode glancing at them with a content smile. The godswood held no peace either. Every tree they had climbed together, sat under or prayed beneath, no place held any freedom from grief. The glassy pool beside the heart tree was still and calm. Ben remembered being bent double with laughter when Lyanna had pushed Brandon in angrily and he had come up spluttering, he sat beside the tree now, staring at its horrible face _. I prayed to you, I prayed that you would keep them safe and you did nothing._  The Old Gods are cruel, that they would take the ones he loved and let him keep them in his mind.  
"There are no gods." He said darkly and the wood stayed silent, a breeze rustling the leaves above him. He put his head in his hands in despair.  _Bring them back to me, bring them back I beg you, take me and give them life._  The breeze rustled the leaves again and he thought he heard laughter, a young girl's laugh and he turned quickly but the wood was still empty _. We should never have parted, we were safe together_ , he thought. The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. He heard a shuffling of footsteps and looked up to see Maester Walys walking slowly towards him, his chain clinking and his brown robes brushing the floor thick with dark red leaves.  
"I am sorry to interrupt your prayers Benjen."  
"I was not praying maester, I have naught to pray for."  
"Your sister was a good woman." He said the words as if to comfort him but it did not.  
"Good, evil, honourable, dishonourable. What does it matter what she was when she is dead?"  
"Those who love her will remember her, she lives on in our memory."  
"I do not want to remember." He felt tears choking him again and a lump was in his throat. "I want to forget."  
"Do not wish that Benjen, if we forget it will be as though she never existed."  
"I cannot stay here maester. They linger in every part of Winterfell, I will never find peace here, only pain."  
"Where will you go Benjen?" He thought a while.  _Where would he go?_  There was no place for him, Winterfell had been his only home. The silence swelled, filling the spaces between each branch, each solitary leaf, as if the Old Gods had come to him at last. W _here do broken things go?_ He asked them _._ There was a place where lost, dishonoured, broken men could go, they could forget their pasts and start again.  
"I want to take the black." He said suddenly. "I want to join the Night's Watch."  
"Master that is an honourable path but you are a Stark, surely there are better things waiting for you in the south."  
"All the Starks that travel south come back as bones." He said bitterly.  
"You could marry a lord's pretty daughter, be a Lord yourself. The King would see you wed to a highborn lady, I hear Lady Ashara Dayne is still unwed."  
"I don't care about the King, or Ashara Dayne, or some lord's pretty daughter. I don't want any of that. I want to forget, to be someone else."  
"You will never forget them Benjen, even with your final breath you will see their faces. You cannot run from ghosts." He was right, whether he was here or at the Wall he would always think of Lyanna, of his father's booming voice, of Brandon's gleaming smile. They would never leave him.  
"When Ned returns and we have buried our family I will ride for the Wall. There is nothing left for me at Winterfell, only the memories of what is gone." He got up and strode past the maester leaving him amongst the weirwoods.

Ned rode into Winterfell, gilded in the honours of war, his new fair wife by his side and two bawling babes. One had Lady Catelyn's blue eyes and reddish brown hair and screamed day and night, Robb they'd called him, for the new king. The other was quiet and pale, grey eyes and almost black of hair, a bastard with a bastard name.  _Snow_.  _In what world do we live where such a man as Ned dishonours himself with a bastard son?_  All lips whispered the mothers name, a nurse in the River Lands, a fair maid from King's Landing, and others whispered the name of Lady Ashara Dayne but more quietly since a raven had brought word of her death. A star had fallen at Starfall it seemed but truth told it that she had jumped from the high tower, her brothers Valyrian sword by the window. _How I wish Winterfell were a fortress by the sea so could join the lady in her watery grave._  Ravens brought him sorrow, only dark words, it was right that he be a crow, dressed in black. He told Ned of his intention and it met no protest, a colder man he was, beaten by all he'd seen.  
"It is an honourable path," he had said "And a vow that is not to be taken lightly, you must give up all you know to be a crow."  
"Some men's chains are another's wings, brother." Ben had said in reply. When they rested their kins bones beneath the stone and said their prayers before the everlasting heart tree Ben mounted his horse and wondered when he would see Winterfell again.  _When its walls are not haunted by the ghosts of the rebellion_ , he thought. He bolted through the gates, not looking back as he rode towards the wild north, towards the Night's Watch, towards the Wall.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope anyone reading enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it and should there be any disappointment with the ending I would direct you back to the prologue as the story begins with an ending.  
> Thanks for reading!


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